The Only Thing That's Right
by theatricalveggie
Summary: "I watch him sleeping, his chest rise and fall. Tomorrow we know." This is a re-telling of the siege on the Capitol. This is story picks up right at the end of Even If You Cannot Hear My Voice. I think we've shifted from Canon-Divergent all the way to AU now... [Light Up Series - Book 4]
1. Chapter 1 - Travel & Waiting

A hovercraft takes us to 12 of all places. The rebellion has set up a makeshift transportation area outside the fire zone. My eyes drift toward town. Haymitch sits on a large rock a few feet away, his gaze wandering over the rubble we once called home before he buries his face in his hands. I can feel Finnick and Johanna staring. Johanna keeps her distance and lets me grieve, but Finnick sneaks up behind me and wraps his arms around my chest, leaning his chin on my head.

"You'll make him pay for it, kiddo," he says softly.

In the distance I see Peeta's squad unloading. He hasn't been back in 12 since the firebombing. When his eyes hit the town, I see his stature waver, just for a second. Even months later, parts of our district still smolder, and small areas of black smoke stain the whitish gray ash that has settled over everything. Each broken home is indistinguishable from the next. We only know what is what because there is a map of it in our hearts. Peeta straightens his posture and looks around. When he finds me, he relaxes a little. I want to go to him, but instead I check my firearm and grab my duffel. Our troop is assigned an area to camp, and Boggs hands us some tents. I stare at my team and watch them work.

Boggs has a serious look on his face that hasn't shifted since we boarded the hovercraft. His eyes constantly trace over our group, taking inventory, counting, watching over us. Haymitch, Mitchell, and Homes all work together to stand their tent up. Haymitch could easily walk twenty minutes and go sleep in his house. I could, too. But instead, I stare at my hands and try to force them to drive a stake in the ground. Johanna and Gale bicker back to back, Johanna helping me with my tent and Gale working with Finnick. Cressida and her team keep filming, and I wonder how watching us pitifully build a camp might of any value to the rebellion.

"Where do you plan on sleeping?" Jackson asks the crew and my gaze shifts to her. I watch as she stares at their tent, still rolled on the ground, and back up to Cressida. "It's almost dark." The camera crew finally puts down the equipment and gets to work. I watch Jackson as she gathers wood and begins to build a fire. I don't know how to size her up. Like Boggs, she has a role in Command, so I've hardly spent any time with her in training. She seems hard. She clearly is not a fan of the camera crew.

By the time our fire is going, the entire camp has fallen quiet. I stare around at the different groups, each huddled around their camps, eating rations from cans. So many of the men and women around me are young. Practically reaping age. Innocent. This is the first time they've spent the night above ground, the first time they've seen the stars. I wonder how many will go home.

I have no idea where Peeta is out in the dark.

I stir my stew around in the can. It's bland, tastes like white potatoes and salt. I set the can on the earth, hear the gravel grinding under the metal bottom like boots on pavement. It's so silent I can hear the fire pop in front of us. I gaze over and watch as Finnick stares at the flames, a distant look on his face. I know Peeta is out there somewhere, with his camp, hearing the same hollow quiet, and the crackling fire reminds me of a song my dad used to sing when we buried ourselves in the deep of the woods. I take a breath.

 _There will be rest._

Everyone in the camp stops. Their hands calm. They look over.

 _There will be rest,_

 _and sure stars shining._

 _There will be rest,_

 _And sure stars shining._

Haymitch shifts his weight. Our eyes meet. One way or another, we will rest. We will either win this war, or we'll find rest in the earth, in the nothingness that comes next.

 _Over the roof-tops crowned with snow,_

 _A reign of rest, serene forgetting,_

 _The music of stillness,_

 _holy and low._

Holy is a word from before the Dark Days. From when they believed in something. We've lost that now, but I still know what it means. I know what it means to want something bigger than you, to hope for something more. But all we've ever known is dark and hunger.

 _I will make this world of my devising_

 _Out of a dream in my lonely mind._

My gaze shifts to Johanna, who is sitting at the campfire leaning her head of Gale's shoulder. Johanna, who spent weeks lost in her lonely mind. Like Peeta. I watch Finnick, who stares at his shoes. We can make this place different. _I think you can change things, Katniss._ Prim's words ring in my head.

 _I shall find the crystal of peace,_

 _– above me_

 _Stars I shall find._

The song is a goodbye. A suicide note. Because that's what we're doing here. We're offering ourselves for something greater. Peace, either in freedom or death. But we've come for peace. I feel the cameras on me, and I stand and brush off my pants. "Night," I say quietly, and pull myself into the tent.

Johanna never comes to bed and in the pitch black of night Finnick finally crawls into my tent.

"I can't listen to them anymore," he complains with a grin, and I muffle a laugh. He holds my hand though, across the tent. I finally sleep.

The next morning we board a train that will carry us to the Capitol. It's not the route that we used to take as victors that weaved us through the districts of Panem. Most of the leisure and business travel railways have been bombed. The delivery infrastructure remains intact, though, so there are plenty of direct routes in to the Capitol. There are no luxury cars. Instead, soldiers are packed onto cargo trains like freight, dark gray uniforms stuffed side-by-side as they rest their heads on the packs jammed between their knees. The districts cannot travel easily between each other. When their soldiers converge on the Capitol, it will be the first time many of them meet. Likely the last, too.

When the train door slides shut with a slam and the rebels are plunged into darkness. I pat to my right until I find Finnick's hand and grasp it tight. The trip will take nearly three days. I lean my head back against the cold, metal wall.

"Can you imagine Plutarch in here, traveling like this?" Finnick says, making no effort to soften his voice. I hear a laugh from across the train. It's not one of ours; it's just another troop taking solace in picturing Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker, and how he might react to a foot soldier's accommodations.

"Or Fulvia?" I add, and there are a few more laughs. Soon the train is bustling with sound. Most of the people in our car are from 13, as expected, but when we reach the rebel encampment outside the Capitol we'll begin to meet rebels from other districts. Our eyes adjust. I can't recognize anyone in the darkness, but I can see shapes. Outlines of humans destined for war.

"Thank you," I hear a woman say from across our car. Even though I can't see her face, I know she's talking to me. Us.

"You don't need to thank us," I answer.

"You didn't have to come here. None of the victors did. You've already survived a war with the Capitol, you're already a casualty. You shouldn't have to do it again. But you are here anyway," she says.

"We chose to be here, just like you," I answer.

"I know. That's why I said thank you," she responds.

"You're welcome," Johanna says sarcastically into the dark. I'm sure if I could see her face she'd be making some kind of nasty expression in the woman's direction.

The travel is unbearably long. Our arms and legs cramp, the bones in our body grind into the metal floor. I try to stand as much as possible. We sleep indiscriminately. It's hard to tell what time it is anyway in the sameness of the dark. Each day we are given three fifteen minute breaks outside, but most people spend the time trying to find a spot to relieve themselves than stretching or taking in the sun. At one of the stops I see Peeta, three or four cars down. We meet eyes and he gives a small wave.

When our train finally arrives in the Capitol, I hammer my feet into the tile-covered earth and try to make the blood flow again. The rebel encampment is a ten-block stretch outside the train station where Peeta and I first arrived in the Capitol as tributes. I remember him smiling and waving out the window. I barely knew him then. I certainly didn't trust him. Now I wonder where his squad is cordoned off to.

The rebels won the train station over a week ago, losing hundreds of lives in the process. The peacekeeping force retreated further back into the city. I pitch my tent and stare up at the empty sky. Mitchell and I make eye contact. He's thinking the same thing. We feel exposed here out in the open.

"What about hovercraft attacks?" he asks Boggs, and I shift my attention to our Commander.

"It's not an issue. Almost their entire fleet was shut down in the attack on Two. Whatever few vehicles the Capitol has working aren't likely to be deployed for offensive measures. They are probably in some secret bunker ready for an escape by Snow and his allies," he answers. My stomach wretches but I force my face to remain unchanged. I hadn't really considered Snow escaping. Slipping from my fingers. Either way, the sky is to remain clear. Apparently 13 lost a number of hovercraft in the bombing raid. We're both playing with one hand tied behind our backs. If this war is to be won, it will be fought on the streets, hopefully with minimal damage to the infrastructure and as few as necessary human casualties. 13 wants the Capitol as much as the Capitol wants 13.

The people in the encampment beside us are from District 10. I remember touring their slaughterhouses, and now here they sit, all in a row, like cattle. We talk, but none of it resonates with me. A few ask to shake my hand, which is awkward. I don't feel like the Mockingjay right now.

When I lie in my tent that night, staring at the cloth walls, I find myself unable to sleep. This is coming to an end. Either Snow dies, or I do.

Tomorrow, we invade the city.

 **A/N: Poem by Sara Teasdale.**


	2. Chapter 2 - Descent

The next morning is a bit chaotic as everyone prepares for their departure into the city. It's still dark when rebel units from across Panem are called into the square of the train station. We pack toward the platform where above us the Commanders from the different squadrons hold miniature Holos in their hands. The soldiers whisper and speculate until Commander Paylor steps forward. They fall silent in her presence. She's earned respect on the battlefield. She's earned respect in their eyes, their minds, their hearts. We all want the same thing.

"For the first time in our lifetime we're standing together with thirteen districts. Our future starts today, when we march together into the Capitol. To slow our advance, President Snow has built a minefield of traps. The sadistic inventions of Gamemakers meant to make sport of our deaths," she tells the soldiers transfixed to her every word. "Today, you will be launching the largest assault Panem has ever known. Listen to your Commanders. Move cautiously, but never stop moving. We can only go forward together. The Capitol may be strong, but it is not invulnerable. Together, _we_ are stronger. Snow knows this. It's why he kept us apart, why he _drove_ us apart. With class. With favoritism. With the Games." I feel eyes draw toward the victors. I take Finnick's hand. We show them districts do not divide us. "Snow made enemies of allies. That ends today! That ends now! Whether you are from Two or Eight, today we are _all_ Panem!" She takes a deep breath, and for a moment I feel like she makes contact with each and every one rebel before her. "You know what you came here to do. Find your Commander, and move out!"

The crowd erupts in cheers and applause. I feel a fire burn in my chest.

Boggs takes the stage and bellows over the din, "Your Commanders will line up in front of the platform in order of district of origin! District 1 to the east end, District 13 to the west, all mixed-district units meet at the north-most point of the station! Clear out!"

We about-face and head toward the north. Johanna adjusts her vest and snaps her pack snug to her body. We're dressed in all black. When we all convene in front of Boggs and Jackson, we listen quietly at our instructions.

"The objective of our unit is to reach the presidential palace. All intel tells us that Snow has yet to evacuate the premises. He may flee as we engage the city, so our unit needs to be more covert than the others that are outright pushing forward. We need to stay off the streets whenever possible, avoid being caught on camera. All units have been ordered to disable as many pods as possible as they traverse the city. Forward motion will be slow, but we need to make safe passage for the troops following us in," Boggs orders. We all nod. I look to my right and in the distance I see Peeta, hunched on his knees, double-knotting the laces on his boots. He looks up and our eyes meet.

"Fall out," I hear Boggs order, and my feet start moving. Peeta rises and keeps his eyes on me until I'm forced to turn around. I wonder if that's the last time I'll see him. I close my eyes and try to memorize what I just saw. His face calm, but eyes vexed. His posture even, his gun resting at his side at the end of his slack arm. _I'll see you at midnight,_ I think in my head. We follow Boggs into the city.

After three days, our squad risks deserting out of sheer boredom. Given our more covert mission, we're taking an indirect route in, so we aren't in the vicinity of any other rebel units. Cressida and her team take shots of us firing at nothing. She tells me they will use the footage for disinformation to be leaked to the Capitol. If we only shoot the pods Plutarch has marked, the Capitol will be able to discern what intel we have. Instead, we shoot aimlessly at street corners and lamp posts, trying to trigger unmarked dangers. Mostly we just add to the rainbow glass shards already piled on the street. We stay off the streets when Capitol cameras are in sight. When any real danger is present, Gale, Finnick, and I are ushered to the back of the unit. They don't seem to be as worried about Haymitch and Johanna. They haven't been used in many propos. I guess they are less valuable to the revolution. Gale finds the whole thing infuriating.

"Welcome to my world," I grumble unsympathetically, and he rolls his eyes.

That night we sleep in the lobby of what was a shopping mall. I wonder if it will be a shopping mall after the war. If we win, will we shop? It seems so extraneous to me. Finnick sleeps on one side of me and Johanna on the other. Finnick's arm is draped on top of my blanket so he can feel if I move. He's very protective of me in the field. He's afraid Snow will rip me away from them in the night. I turn my head and meet Johanna's amber eyes, which flicker back at me. I find the little specks of green.

"I don't know how they all sleep," she says as the crew drifts around us, save Homes who is on guard. She stares at Finnick's arm, loose and probably cold as it's exposed to the night air. "At least this time he gets to be upfront about protecting you," she says. My eyes drift to Finnick. The piece of string tied around his finger. Johanna stretches her body out. "I loved him once," Johanna confesses to the night.

"Really?" I ask. I try to imagine her loving anyone. I'm not sure what she and Gale have is love. It's probably more comfort than anything else. Peace and fire.

"Love's weird," she answers, rolling away from me. I realize no one has loved Johanna in a long time. She has no mother, no sister, no family. She's acerbic, unapologetic. She's not forthcoming with kindness or affection. "Do you dream about dying? When you scream?" she asks quietly.

"No," I reply. "Or at least, not me dying. I mostly dream about losing Prim. Losing people I love." I'm quiet for a minute. "I dream about losing you."

She scoffs. "Sure you do." Johanna rejects the idea that I might count her among people I love.

"Jo," I start, and she rolls back toward me, her face barely visible in the dark.

"I dream about death so much it feels more like a memory than a nightmare," she breathes into the darkness. I start to reply, but she cuts me off. "You should go to sleep, Mockingjay. Lots of pods to kill tomorrow." She rolls away from me again and I stare at the ceiling.

In the morning, Boggs explains what we will be passing for pods before our next stop. He pulls up the Holo and points out two sites. One releases a spray of gunfire. The other traps the invader for either interrogation or execution, depending on the captors' preference. The route follows an inconsequential residential block with no strategic value, but it is forward motion so I don't complain. Boggs orders us to suit up before we head out. The television crew packs up their gear and mounts their body cameras. We dress in heavy protective gear. I have my Mockingjay suit with me, but I've mostly stuck with the street tactics uniform. It makes me feel like part of the unit. Out here I'm not the Mockingjay. I'm a rebel.

We crunch through the streets of broken glass until we reach our target, the block we are to take before noon. It is a real, if small, goal to accomplish. We gather around Boggs to examine the Holo projection of the street. The gunfire pod is positioned above an apartment awning about a third of the way down the street. It's an easy trigger, a spray of bullets should set it off. The net pod is farther away, almost an entire block farther. I can tell this pod has Boggs concerned. It's likely there is an unmarked pod between the two, and the net requires someone to set off the body sensor mechanism. Everyone volunteers, and unsurprisingly the victors are passed over in favor of Mitchell. He's a good marksman, so I again stifle my complaints, but I don't feel like I'm helping. I look to Gale and quickly see I'm not the only one aggravated by inaction. Haymitch gives me a look and I bury it.

The squad positions itself under Boggs's direction and Cressida has the camera crew placed to our left with Castor in front and Pollux in the rear. Jackson gives them a stern warning to stay out of the way. We slowly proceed down the street, just like one of our exercises back in 13. Boggs has ordered us each to blow out a section of windows so if we are caught on camera it isn't so obvious we know exactly where the pod is. I find my target and blow out the bubblegum pink glass pane. It shatters and joins the ruins on the street. When Mitchell hits the pod, we take cover —ducking into doorways or flattening onto the pretty, light orange and pink paving stones —as a hail of bullets sweeps back and forth over our heads.

Boggs double-checks the next pod and finally orders us forward. He steps out from behind our cover, placing his left foot onto an orange paving stone. Triggering a bomb that blows his legs off.

"BOGGS!" I scream before running forward. This is war. This is war. Not the cotton candy-colored mission we've been on for days. We are at war. The pastel streets are now stained with blood. The air smells like burnt flesh and smoke. A second explosion goes off and I'm thrown sideways, my ears ringing as I try to orient myself. I force myself back up to my feet and reach Boggs, dropping to my knees beside him. I try to make sense of the torn flesh, the missing limbs. I try to find something to stem the red flow from his body.

"Come on, Boggs. Stay with us," I whisper as I run my hands over his form. "No no no no no," I mutter under my breath. Homes rushes forward with a first-aid kit and I try to assess what's inside, but Boggs grabs my wrist. My eyes finally meet his face. His color is ashen. He's slipping away.

"The Holo," he manages, and I scramble around until I manage to find the unit. I nearly vomit as I try to wipe it clean and bits of warm flesh run along my palm. I push it into his hands. I look down and see Homes has fashioned some kind of compression bandage on Boggs's leg, but he's already soaked it through with blood.

"Listen to me, your little girl needs you to hang on. Look at me!" I yell, but Boggs is punching keys on the Holo. I glimpse to my left and see Finnick trying to revive one of the Leeg sisters, who was slammed into a wall during the second blast. I hear Jackson barking into a field communicator, trying unsuccessfully to alert the camp to send medics.

I know it's too late.

I close my eyes and suddenly I'm a little girl, standing in the kitchen watching my mother work. Some faceless person lies on our table. I learned then that there are things you don't recover from. Once a pool of blood has reached a certain size. How long someone can go without air. How hot a fever can burn. How much trauma a body can take. I see the blood puddling beneath Boggs and I know we are beyond that point.

Even in his last moments he's focused on our squad. _He's typing in a command, pressing his thumb to the screen for print recognition, speaking a string of letters and numbers in response to a prompt. A green shaft of light bursts out of the Holo and illuminates his face. He says, "Unfit for command. Transfer of prime security clearance to Soldier Katniss Everdeen." It's all he can do to turn the Holo toward my face. "Say your name."_

 _"_ _Katniss Everdeen,_ _" I say into the green shaft. Suddenly, it has me trapped in its light. I can't move or even blink as images flicker rapidly before me. Scanning me? Recording me? Blinding me? It vanishes, and I shake my head to clear it. "What did you do?"_

Beside me Finnick throws a piece of rubble in frustration and it shatters on the tiled street. He leans back on his heels and his shoulders bow. The Leeg sister is gone. My eyes drop back to Boggs.

"I'm going to take Maya to the sea. I promise you. When we get back, I'll take her to Four. We'll let her run in the sand, and Annie will teach her to swim, and we'll catch sea creatures, and Peeta will show her how to draw a mermaid. She'll bathe in the sunlight. Okay?" I say, squeezing his hand in mine. I feel the blood squish between our palms, hot and sticky. He nods as a tear slips down the side of his face, carving a sanguine path through the blood.

"WE NEED TO MOVE!" I hear Jackson holler. Finnick's yelling something back, gesturing to the end of the block where we entered. _Black, oily matter spouts like a geyser from the street, billowing between the buildings, creating an impenetrable wall of darkness. It seems to be neither liquid nor gas, mechanical nor natural._ Whatever it is, it's lethal. There's no heading back the way we came. I look back down at Boggs.

"We need to move him!" I scream desperately as the black oil makes its descent. I can't leave him here. I can't let that consume him. I try to drag him but Boggs grabs my hand.

"Go, Katniss. Go," he says softly. He's never called me Katniss before. Not during the bombing, not in the woods. He's looking at me the way he looks at Maya. Tears burn my eyes.

"I'm not leaving you here," I sob.

"I want you to," he answers. I look over his body and see the toxic black matter hurdling toward us. "Get out of here," he pleads.

"I'm sorry!" I choke out, standing on my feet and clutching the Holo to my chest. "I'm sorry!"

"Go!" Boggs orders, and I turn away from him and run.


	3. Chapter 3 - Tar Graves

There is no way out of this block. Gunfire blasts from my left, and I turn toward the deafening roar. Gale and the surviving Leeg are firing at what looks like nothing, until I realize they are minesweeping. They identify another bomb and I take cover just before it propels shrapnel across the block. The blast opens up a hole giving us access to another street.

"This way!" Gale screams to us, and our unit sprints toward the escape. The air is pungent with fumes from the tarlike poison and I choke. I lose my footing and stumble. I hear Mitchell scream for me. His body slams against mine and I'm thrown forward. Confusion, then a loud snap. I look back at him just in time to realize he's been snared in the net we'd been trying to deactivate. His body is strung above the street by four cables and blood gushes from him like water wringing out of a towel. My mind can't make sense of what it's seeing, why he's so instantly bloodied, and then I realize. The net is made of razor wire, like the coiled horror that runs along the top of the fence in District 12. I feel vomit lurch forward in my throat, and I swallow hard.

"Nothing we can do, Katniss. Leave him!" Johanna bellows and grabs my arm. She wrenches my arm forward and shoves my back. I force my feet to run. We infiltrate the next block, but the wave chases after us, ceaseless in its pursuit – hungry, vicious. Suddenly a door swings open and a Capitolite woman screams at us.

"Here! In here!" she beckons frantically. There's no time to think this through. Our feet slide as we change direction, barreling into her home. "Up!" she cries out, pointing at the stairs. We bolt through her pink and white velvet living room, down a hallway hung with family photos, onto the marble floor of a kitchen and up a set of utility stairs. The tar seeps through the door, crashes through the windows, and chases us as we ascend the steps. By the time we reach the third floor, the first floor is entirely flooded.

"Does it go higher than this?" Cressida asks the woman, who just shakes her head and stares at the tar with wide, disbelieving eyes. We watch as the black sea rises, but finally halts about a yard below our feet. We choke on the noxious air and cover our mouths and noses. My eyes burn but I keep them on the midnight mess before us until it starts to recede. Homes vomits in the corner, spitting bits of tar that invaded his mouth. It drains slowly, the fumes finally dissipating.

We sit with our backs against the wall, panting hard. Almost as if on cue, our stares all shift to the Capitol woman. Her hair is turquoise blue and falls in jagged edges along her shoulders. Her eyelashes match, and her skin has been surgically altered to give her a frosted look. She reminds me of a pane of glass kissed by winter's bite.

"What are we going to do with her?" Gale asks.

"She just saved our lives," I choke out.

"She's one of them. She probably called the Peacekeepers the second she saw us on the street," he answers.

"Cuff her," Jackson orders, and the woman shrieks and presses herself against the gilded wallpaper.

"But I helped you!" she begs as Homes takes her hands and pulls them behind her back.

"We don't know you," Jackson spits back. "You're lucky I didn't tell him to kill you." Jackson looks around and assesses the squad. "Where's Mitchell?" she asks. I shake my head and look at the floor.

"We need to get out of here. Now. We just set off a streetful of pods. You can bet they've got us on surveillance tapes," Haymitch states seriously.

"He's right," Castor confirms. "I spotted some surveillance cameras right as the pod went off." We knew the risk of cameras before. It's why we've been taking this circuitous route through the outskirts of the city. We thought we were being smart, that Snow would consolidate his resources and monitor the more direct pathways to the Capitol. We were wrong. It appears the entire street system is compromised.

"I bet they set off the black wave manually when they saw us taping the propo," Haymitch states. It makes sense. None of us did anything that seemed to trigger the geyser. It went off all on its own.

"Well, we're stuck here at least until the tar retreats back and we have no contact with camp. It seems the blast that set off the pod was likely electromagnetic. Our radio communicators are fried," she says, dropping the useless piece of equipment on the floor. "I'll get us back to camp. Give me the Holo." Jackson reaches for the unit, but I clutch it to my chest. We can't go back to camp. We can't retreat. We have to kill Snow.

"No. Boggs gave it to me. He wanted us to keep going," I say.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. Of course, she thinks it's hers. She's second in command.

"It's true," says Homes. "He transferred the prime security clearance to her while he was dying. I saw it."

"Why would he do that?" demands Jackson. Why indeed? My head's reeling from the ghastly events of the last five minutes —Boggs mutilated, Leeg lying colorless on the street, Mitchell bloody and netted, all three consumed by that foul black wave.

"Because she's more valuable than you," Haymitch answers before I can even formulate a response.

Jackson takes no personal affront to this. She was raised as one of many, just another identical person in 13 with an identical gray suit. She doesn't need personal identity, but she does need order. Structure. Command. Haymitch reads her face.

"The Holo is imperative to reaching the presidential palace," he says. "We need to protect the person who is carrying it. You saw what Mitchell did to save the Mockingjay. That's why we're here. You and I will probably be dead by tomorrow, but she's making it to Snow if it kills every last one of us." Everyone nods in agreement, and I feel sick. This was not supposed to be about me. "We need the Holo protected, and she's the one we're all ready to sacrifice ourselves for. We can't protect two people. Boggs just proved that," Haymitch adds. "Obviously he wanted it on her."

Cressida speaks up. "It's true. That's why we're here. Plutarch wants it televised. He thinks if we can film the Mockingjay assassinating Snow, it will end the war." This gives even Jackson pause. She processes the statement and looks at me with disdain. Haymitch is right though, and it's glaringly obvious.

"I want that woman detained," Jackson says, referencing the terrified tenant, before she turns and walks down the sticky stairs to assess the withdrawal of the black matter. Leeg locks the woman in a closet. I wonder if she'll starve to death in there. I remember coming back to the Capitol for the Quarter Quell. How angry the people were. How for the first time, they looked at me like they were losing one of their own. I close my eyes and hear Paylor. _Today we are all Panem._ When the rest of the crew heads downstairs, I unhook the lock to the door. I'm not sure how long until she tries it again, but she'll have to figure it out eventually.

When I reach the living room, Jackson looks at me. "Lead on, Soldier Everdeen," she says with some sarcasm in her tone. I stare at the Holo and its blinking lights. It's still activated, but it's as useless as a paperweight without someone who knows how to operate it. There is no time for me to fiddle around and try to figure this out.

"I don't know how to use this. Boggs said you would help me," I tell Jackson. "He said I could count on you."

Jackson scowls and snatches the Holo from my hands. She begins fluently typing in commands, not bothering to show me what she's doing. After she pounds a couple keys an intersection is projected. She points. "We should exit the building out the kitchen door. There's a small courtyard which faces the backside of another unit. This here," she runs her fingers in an X. "This shows four streets meeting at this one intersection."

The intersection is lit up like the night sky. Pod markers blink in every direction, and these are only the pods that were in place when Plutarch stole the original Holo. Who knows how many more are in play, not to mention after our not-so-quiet adventure with the black tar, we are likely to deal with swarms of Peacekeepers. I bite the inside of my lip. I'm not the only one worried. I watch as Haymitch and Jackson assess the map. Gale's eyes trace each street, his mind clicking.

"I think we should go out the way we came in," I offer. Almost everyone immediately objects, except Gale, who watches me intently, ruminating over my suggestion. "The wave may have triggered and absorbed other pods in its path."

Pollux starts gesturing feverishly with his hands at his brother. Cressida's assistant Messalla nods as if he understands.

"It may have disabled the cameras as well," Castor translates. "Or at the very least coated the lenses."

The rest of the group seems to come to an agreement, and I catch Jackson watching me. She nods in quiet approval. She may be hard-won, but as I observe her tighten the laces on her boots I start to wonder if that motivates her soldiers. If they want to earn her respect.

"Let's move out," she orders and pushes the kitchen door open. Our crew follows her out onto the goo-covered street. The poisonous liquid has hardened into a rubbery texture. It reminds me of when Peeta sets a pallet of oil paints aside for too long and they start to congeal before hardening his brushes. It coats the pink and orange streets. My eyes shift left and I see a large teardrop of black sap hanging from four chains, a human hand hanging out. Mitchell.

I swallow hard and turn away from him. I stare at Johanna's back as we walk out of the city.

It takes almost two hours before we are no longer walking on tar, and even then the puddles are unavoidable. It's clear our assumption about the pods was right. We see numerous remnants of depraved pods, dead and disabled at our feet – a block sprinkled with the golden bodies of tracker jackers, another covered in nails.

"Must have been some kind of shrapnel-filled explosive," Gale offers as he catches me staring at the pieces on the ground.

Jackson sprints across intersections, holding her hand up for others to wait while she scans the perimeter for trouble, but we find none. At one block, we find an entire crew of Peacekeepers encased in black pitch, their faces frozen and contorted as they succumbed to its poisons.

"We're losing light," Finnick says. Translation – we need to get off the streets. Like any other Arena, the Careers will hunt at night. Jackson identifies an apartment that seems relatively obscured from the cameras. Gale picks the lock and we all fall inside quickly. Haymitch stays on the street for a minute, watching the last of our footprints fade from the black-gelled ground. He closes the door behind him and locks it again.

Each soldier takes and clears a room. We're alone. The apartment is identical to the one we were just in. Cookie cutter, Peeta would say. We sit on the plush carpeted floor and overstuffed couches. Johanna rubs her eyes. We try to catch our breath. Just as I feel my finger relax from the trigger of my gun, a distant chain of explosions rocks with house with tremors.

"It wasn't close," Jackson assures us. "A good four or five blocks away."

"Where we left them," says Leeg. Her sister. Boggs. Mitchell. Buried in a sea of darkness, their remains lost to us. Leeg pushes herself to her feet and walks to the kitchen. She makes like she is scrounging for food, but mostly she needs to process her sister's death without our eyes examining her face.

The television comes to life with a blaring horn and we all jump in our seats.

"It's alright," Cressida calls out, motioning for us to sit back town. "It's an emergency broadcast. Every Capitol television will activate. This won't draw attention to us."

After the Capitol anthem booms loudly through the living room and its seal fades away, the screen cuts to our unit just after the bombs took out Boggs. A voiceover narrates the scene as we regroup and react to the black tar shooting down the street. I watch as we lose control. The camera is merciless, and it's like I'm on the couch on stage watching the Games recap with Caesar. I stare in horror as I trigger the net and Mitchell throws me out of the way. I watch the blades scoop him up like one of Gale's snares. The street is utter chaos as we sprint without direction. The last thing we see is Gale alone on the street trying to shoot through the cables that held Mitchell aloft like a grisly chandelier. He finally gives up and bolts away.

They call out the victors by name, along with Boggs and Cressida, who I assume have some name recognition amongst a Capitol audience.

"That's when they must have lost the street cameras to the oil. There's no aerial footage. Boggs must have been right about the Capitol's hovercraft capacity," says Castor. I didn't notice this, but I guess it's the kind of thing a cameraman picks up on.

Coverage resumes behind the courtyard of the apartment where we took shelter. Peacekeepers line the roof of the adjacent building. A series of shells are launched into the row of apartments setting off the chain of explosions we heard earlier. The building collapses into dust. I gasp. Gale looks back at me.

"Nothing," I mutter. The woman. Did she get out? Did she realize I'd unlocked the door, or did they just make her home her deathbed? I feel suddenly very sick and shift in my seat.

The news cuts to a live feed where a reporter stands on the ground in front of the blaze and pronounces us all dead. They play the footage over and over. Numerous pundits and reporters talk about my well-deserved and violent demise. There's even a montage of the Mockingjay's rise and fall from power.

"Seems pretty polished. That's probably been on hand for months," Cressida smirks. Leeg emerges with some cans of food from the kitchen – beans, soup, noodles. The reporters promise an official statement from Snow in the near future. We eat slowly and watch our deaths run on a loop until at last the screen dies out.

"Finally some luck," Haymitch mumbles. I guess he's right. It will be at least morning before they realize we weren't inside. We have some time.

"I wonder if they saw that back in Thirteen. If they bought it," Finnick says. He's worried about Annie. I wonder if the other rebels saw it, those camped out for the night. I wonder if Peeta thinks I'm dead. I wonder if he's still alive to see it.

"So now that we're dead, what's our next move?" asks Gale.

"Get some sleep, soldier. Tomorrow we move out," Jackson orders. We all settle in, though sleep is evasive. Eventually the breathing tempers though. The room lulls.

"In Four, we lose people to the sea sometimes." I hear Finnick whisper, but I keep my eyes closed. It's not meant for me. "We don't get their bodies back. They make their grave on the ocean floor. That's how I lost my older brother."

I didn't know Finnick had a brother. When my dad was killed in the mine, his body was delivered to us in a box. My mother didn't open it. We were told not to. Getting the box made everything feel suddenly and potently real. My dad was not alive. He was in a box.

I don't know how you get closure when there's nothing left to bury. Nothing to move on from. In the districts, we don't own anything, not really. Your body is so personal, so intimate. It's the only thing that's ever really yours, and even that can be taken from you. Like Boggs's was taken from him. Like Mitchell.

Like her sister's.

I hear Leeg take in a shaky breath.

"Even when I was reaped for the Games, I was a little bit grateful. I knew that, unlike my brother, at least they'd send me home to my parents." I hear her suppress a cry, burying it in her pillow. Finnick continues. "I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it happened for a reason. That it will all be okay. We have no idea how this war will end. But we know she wanted to fight it. Your sister died doing what she thought was right, and that means something. It's not diminished by the fact you can't bring her home. It just makes her sacrifice that much more noble. You should be so proud of her."

I think about Finnick trying to bring Leeg back, all thought for personal preservation set aside. He didn't want her to die. He didn't want to leave her there on the street. And now he's strong enough to comfort the one she left behind.

I roll on my side and stare at the wall. I try not to think about who we might lose next.


	4. Chapter 4 - Sleeping and Not

In the late hours of the night, the television blares back to life. I stretch my stiff body. Next to me, Johanna props herself up, her shorn hair pointing in all directions. She rubs her eyes and stares at the screen. She's clearly only been out a very short time. I remember how little she slept in the Quell. Our eyes draw to the screen. After the seal of Panem fades, they slowly begin to flash images of the dead. They start with the four faces of our camera crew. Capitol citizens clearly being made an example of. They show Boggs next, Gale, and then they flash the faces of the victors – Haymitch, Johanna, Finnick, me. They use our headshots from the Quell and our names stretch across our chests. I reminds me of the nightly update in the Games, of watching the faces of the lifeless flash in the sky. Who was lost, who is left.

It's just another Arena, only this time they've miscounted their dead.

They don't bother with the soldiers from 13 – Jackson, the Leegs, Mitchell, Homes. I'm not sure if it's because the Capitol has no idea who they are, or if they just don't care. Gale scoots next to me and hands me a can of lamb stew Messalla found hidden in the bathroom.

"It's your favorite, right?" he asks. I nod and take the soup. It makes my chest hurt. It makes me miss Peeta.

My eyes dart back to the screen. I shift in my seat, knowing what's coming next. Finally, Snow appears on camera, seated at his desk. Behind him stands the woman who visited us on Tour, Minister Nunn, with her tight leather gloves and stiff upper lip. In the background, two Avoxes appear with their heads down. I wonder if Beetee ever got through to them. A fresh, clean white rose sits in Snow's lapel and I can almost smell its repugnant odor through the lens. The flag of Panem is draped on the wall behind him.

"As many of you witnessed this evening, our Peacekeepers have rid Panem of the menace called the Mockingjay," Snow begins. He hits every syllable of Mockingjay, with an air of arrogance and ridicule in his tone. He sneers at the word. "Katniss Everdeen," he continues. My name sounds sinful on his puffy, serpentine lips. "A poor unstable girl with nothing but a small talent with a bow and arrow. Was she valuable? She was extremely valuable to your rebellion because you have no vision. You call yourselves an alliance, but when the tide of the war shifts, it will go back to how it's always been. Every district for itself. Every _man_ for himself. This alliance, this rebellion will bring you nothing but mutual destruction. Stand together, fall together," he threatens. The Capitol flashes some clips of me and Finnick and Johanna. Victors allied from across Panem. Then it shows the building fall, smothering our lives from this earth. Death. That's what an alliance will get you. He's trying to sew infighting amongst the rebels. "Katniss Everdeen was not a great thinker. She was not the mastermind of the rebellion. She was merely a face plucked from the rabble because she caught your fleeting attention with some antics in the Games. But she was necessary, so very necessary, because the rebels have no real leader among you. You followed a child into war. If you surrender now, we may show you some semblance of mercy."

Somewhere in District 13, Beetee hits a switch, because now it's not President Snow but President Coin who's looking at us.

"Beetee did it! He's in!" Gale exclaims.

"Good evening. For those of you who don't know me, please, allow me to introduce myself. I am President Alma Coin, leader of the rebellion. I have interrupted a broadcast from President Snow in which he attempted to defame a brave young woman. A face picked from the masses, he called her." Coin misquotes Snow. I wonder if it riles him up. I wonder if he is jeering at her from his desk. "As if a leader, a true leader, could be anything else. I had the privilege of knowing a small-town girl from the Seam in District 12 who survived the Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell. She rose up and turned a nation of slaves into an army of freedom fighters. Dead or alive, Katniss Everdeen will remain the face of this revolution. She will not have died for nothing!"

"I had no idea I meant to much to her," I quip under my breath. Finnick snorts a laugh.

"The Mockingjay's vision and ours will be realized – a free Panem with self-determination for all. If ever you waver in your resolve, think of the Mockingjay, and in her you will find the strength you need to rid Panem of its oppressors. Thank you. And be safe."

The screen flashes with a heavily doctored photo of me looking fierce and beautiful, surrounded by flames. "I made that months ago," Messalla comments. My face is all they need now. No propos. No slogans. I'm finally a martyr.

Beetee releases the transmission back to Snow, who remains seated at his desk, seething with anger. Someone will pay for this breach into what was supposed to be an impenetrable emergency broadcast. Someone will die tonight. He knows of Coin's existence. He made the whole "no leader" speech thinking no one would be able to refute it. Thinking his words were final. By the time people learned who Alma Coin was, she'd be dead at his feet. Leadership in 13 had been so clandestine up until now. The war was supposed to be about the people, about the rebels, not about the puppeteers behind it. Snow had no reason to think she's out herself. The anger bubbles. He is reeling with fury.

"When light breaks, when we pull Katniss Everdeen's body from the ashes, we will see exactly who the Mockingjay is. A dead girl who could save no one, not even herself." Seal, anthem, and out.

"Except that you won't find her," Johanna says tauntingly to the empty screen, voicing what we're all probably thinking. Our grace period is coming to an end.

"He's still in the Presidential Palace," Finnick adds. "That's good at least."

"We'll move out in a couple hours. Until then, the rest of you get some sleep," Jackson orders, and everyone lies back down. Johanna plops onto a plush green sofa and cocoons herself in some blankets. Maybe it's the emotions of seeing two very different eulogies for my death, but I'm suddenly exhausted. I want to sleep. Instead of settling down, though, I follow Jackson into the kitchen and insist she show me some basic commands on the Holo. Gale comes along and pays close attention as Jackson shows us at least the rudimentary functions – how to pull up a specific intersection, how to use the pod identifiers, how to enter coordinates.

As practice, my fingers plunk stiffly on the keys and I pull up our current location. My heart leaps to my throat. We must be moving closer to the City Center, because the pods are almost unavoidable in their density. We can't possibly move forward with the cluster of blinking lights surrounding the building.

"Go, get some sleep," Jackson orders, her eyes transfixed on the lights.

"Come on, Catnip, we don't know when our next chance will be," Gale says, grabbing my hand. He's right. My instincts from the Games are telling me to sleep, but instead I lie on the floor running through possibilities in my head. "You're stubborn," Gale whispers, his slate gray eyes on my own.

"You already knew that," I whisper back, and he smiles slightly.

"Did Jo finally sleep?" he asks, and I roll over to spy on her on the couch. I turn back and nod. "Good," he breathes with a sigh of relief. I worry about Gale. In the field today, it was very obvious he had one eye on me and the other on her. He doesn't have an eye out for himself.

"After this, are you going to go home to Twelve? Are you going to rebuild?" I ask him. His eyes drift back to the sleeping cocoon on the couch.

"I'm going wherever she goes," he says, his gaze lingering on her.

We shift gears and refocus on tomorrow's route. I decide it's easiest to rule out possibilities and see what we have left.

"The street is not an option," Gale states, eliminating the most obvious first.

I think of my Games, swinging through the trees. "The rooftops were just as bad as the street," I add, crossing my desired course off the list.

"So we can't move laterally. We can't move up. We only have one choice," he says.

"Underground," I answer. I feel abruptly cold and I shiver slightly. The idea of going underground, dying underground, makes my stomach lurch. It makes me claustrophobic. The mines. 13. I can't seem to get above earth.

"Maybe we aren't so unlike our dads after all," Gale says, reading my mind. I remember Peeta's fingers in my hair on the Victory Tour, encouraging me to breathe slow as we dropped into the belly of the mine in 2. I try to hold onto my resolve.

Jackson wakes the crew soon after a few hours. It's morning, but still dark outside. Gale and I offer our idea and it is clear Jackson came to the same conclusion we did. She has me punch in a few commands and the Holo spits out a map of the subterranean pods. The clean, logical order of the streets is lost underground. The major pathways are followed by major tunnels, yes. But in addition to that there are tunnels for underground transportation, utility tunnels for power and telecom, sewage tunnels, maintenance tunnels. It's an irrational spider's web, but it's the best chance we have.

As we stare at the map, Pollux's face goes white. Castor turns his back to the group and puts his hands on his brother's cheeks. They're twins, Cressida told me. Not identical, of course, but they shared everything in their lives until Pollux was taken by the Capitol. Until they cut out his tongue. I hear Castor whispering to him, and Pollux gulps loudly and nods his head.

There is a maintenance shaft that connects this run of buildings to the sewer system. If we can squeeze down through the shaft, we can enter the underground network without touching the street. Messalla scans the apartment for any leftover caches of food and loads his backpack for later. Castor and Pollux try to figure out the best way to get their gear through the narrow tunnel, but ultimately we need to abandon the insect suits in favor of their smaller backup cameras. We send Homes and Finnick down first to scout, and then we let our unarmed partners go before the rest of our crew follows. Johanna and I do a quick sweep of the apartment, erasing our presence, making it appear as though we were never here. We stuff the camera equipment in a closet upstairs and lock the door. We finally duck down the shaft, followed by Jackson.

The underground tunnel is pitch black and narrow. I feel my chest clenching as my heart begins a panicked dance in my chest. _Smell the pine. Smell the pine._ We progress single file, holding our packs and gear out to the side. We finally reach a wide ladder with rubber treads and follow a swift, easy descent into the bowels of the city. We gather around the base of the ladder and wait for our eyes to adjust. I train my focus on Jackson, but I can't help but notice Pollux trembling and tugging at his collar as though he cannot breathe. Castor fixes himself at his side.

"This was my brother's labor assignment after he became an Avox," says Castor. "It took my family five years before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. He didn't see the sun once." We're all uncomfortably silent.

"Well, then you just became our most valuable asset," Haymitch says. Castor laughs and Pollux manages a smile. I'm not sure Haymitch meant it to offer consolation, but he's certainly right. Pollux turns out to be worth ten Holos. He navigates us quickly through what would otherwise take us hours to discern on the maps. He brings us to an area called the Transfer, which acts as an underground roadway for utility and delivery trucks. It's vital to the Capitol's defenses. In the daytime they disable all pods, but at night it's a minefield. We stop.

"We should take out the Transfer," Gale says. Homes nods in agreement. It would be a detrimental blow to the Capitol's mobility in the siege.

"How?" Haymitch asks, at least partly intrigued.

"We could reverse engineer one of the pods," Johanna offers, and Gale smiles at her. They have clearly been spending too much time together.

"She's right. We could take out the tunnel and that utility main. This could be a critical blow," Gale insists, pointing to a pipe carrying power from one end of the Transfer to the other.

"No," Jackson dismisses the idea. "That interferes with the mission. Soldier Everdeen is to assassinate Snow. Taking down the Transfer would only slow our progress, and it would certainly blow our cover," she answers. My face burns and I try to will it to stop. We've made killing Snow a priority, but Gale's right. This could help topple the Capitol. He stares at me willfully, then nods his head to comply with Jackson's command. Pollux signals to his brother.

"We should get out of here," Castor says to the group. "There are cameras in the Transfer." We follow Pollux into the maze of tunnels. He indicates which areas require gas masks, where there might be rats or foul water. Most of the time we walk on pavement, but there are some spots where we have to cut through tunnels flowing with chest-high water. We hold our rifles over our heads and listen to our boots squish as we shiver in wet clothes all the way to the next designated area. We make good time compared to our aboveground travel, traversing many blocks in a matter of hours. We rest occasionally, but keep pace. After nearly eight hours of trudging through the galleys, I suggest we make camp. No one argues.

Pollux finds a small, warm room humming with machines loaded with levers and dials. He holds up four fingers, meaning we have that many hours until the Avoxes change shift and someone finds us here. We take off our shoes and wring out our socks, hanging them on the warm pipes to dry.

"Do you think they've found us yet? Or, not found us?" Johanna asks. She means the other us. The nonexistent dead us that is buried in that building. I chuckle quietly.

"I wonder if Snow will admit he was wrong, or if he'll carry on with the whole charade," Cressida ponders aloud.

"I'll bet our faces are plastered on every screen up there. He wants us dead. Pride won't get in the way of that," I answer.

Messalla passes around the cans of food and we eat voraciously. We take shifts napping. The space is small and we are forced to sleep sitting up, wedged together like those tiny fish the Capitol keep in cans.

"Sardines," Finnick says, almost like he can read my mind. He smirks at me and takes his turn on guard next to Pollux, who volunteered for the whole four-hour shift. I'm sure this is the place of his nightmares. Since I'm not on the first shift, I wedge myself in the tight space between Gale and Leeg. Gale's head nods and drops onto my shoulder, his other hand weaved in Johanna's. Leeg sits taciturnly; her eyes watching a needle on one of the machines twitch from side to side.

"I thought you were transferred to Peeta's unit," I ask quietly.

"We were. But we asked to transfer back. We wanted to be with the Mockingjay," she says tonelessly. It's not meant to be a compliment. She's just being matter-of-fact. I wonder if she regrets it now. If she thinks it was a mistake.

I lean my head on top of Gale's and I'm quickly asleep.

It doesn't last.

I'm jolted from sleep by what sounds like hissing. It must be steam coming from the vents in the mine, but when I look at Pollux, he's alert too, shoving Finnick's arm. Then the hiss turns into a word. A single word. A name over and over and over again, repeated in a sick chorus of whispers.

"Katnisssssssssssssssssssss…"


	5. Chapter 5 - Red on White

The grace period has ended. Snow knows we are alive, knows we probably fled to the sewers, and now he's released what must be a pack of Mutts programmed to come find us and rip me to bits. Make me pay for making Snow look like a fool.

"Katnissssssssssssssss….."

The proximity jolts me to my feet.

"Up! Up! Everyone up!" I cry out, and the soldiers scramble awake, pulling their shoes back on their feet.

"Katnissssssssssssssss….." it hisses again, clearer this time, reverberating off the walls of the tunnels. There's no mistaking it. Whatever _it_ is, it's intelligent and it's coming for me.

"What is that?" Johanna asks as she takes her axe and readies it in front of her chest. I load my bow and look around frantically, but the dark tunnel is empty save the haunting sound.

"Whatever that is, it's after me," I answer. I turn back to the squad. "We should split up. I can take the tunnels back the way we came. I'll transfer the Holo to Jackson and you all follow Pollux out of here," I order.

The responses are immediate and overlapping.

"That's suicide," Cressida argues. "I'm not leaving you," Gale insists. "None of us are, brainless. Don't be stupid," Johanna joins in.

Frustration boils within me.

"You aren't doing me any favors dying for me!" I spit out. "I can head off the whole pack while you all get out of here!"

"No one is going to agree to that!" Jackson says with exacerbation.

"You can end this war, Katniss. _You_ can end this," Finnick says, his voice calm amidst the chaos. "Grab the Holo and let's go," Finnick says.

"Fine," I submit as I take in the team. The propo crew stands there with nothing but clipboards and cameras to defend themselves. I toss my gun to Cressida. I'll use my bow anyway. Gale does the same with Castor, and Finnick and Johanna follow suit. In hand-to-hand combat, we want our own weapons anyway. We have a quick second to show them how to engage the weapon, point and shoot. In close proximity it might be enough.

We leave the warm space free of anything but our scent. The bitter air off the tunnel system chills our soaked clothes as we move silently, following Pollux as he gestures to us over his shoulder. Gale's posture is upright and alert. He's not thinking like prey, he's thinking like the hunter.

"They must be tracking our scent," he calls to Jackson. "We didn't leave anything physical behind us yet they're still following. We need to get into the water."

"Won't that slow us down?" Homes asks.

"Better slow and hidden than fast and found," Haymitch says.

"In the water, now!" Jackson orders, and we all leap from the sidewalk into the rapid stream below. The water is freezing and my jaw immediately begins to chatter. We carry our weapons over our heads and move with the current, following Pollux into the dark. We hear the hisses more clearly out here, although the Mutts are still a ways behind us. We have a lead, but who knows for how long. My mind wanders to the wolflike creatures in my first Arena, the monkeys in the Quell. I think of the different monstrosities I've witnessed on television, monsters released after tributes with nowhere to run. I wonder what form these Mutts will take. What horrific beasts we are about to meet.

We move as quickly as we can, but with speed comes sloppiness – the accidental clang of a gun against a pipe, a cough as water invades our lungs and we try to repel it out. My foot catches on something below the water and I go down. I open my eyes underwater and see my boot stuck under a loose pipe. I pull but I'm not coming free. My lungs start to burn when I see her swim down swiftly next to me. Johanna uses her nimble fingers and pulls my foot free, shoving me up toward the surface. We both come up sputtering, nearly drowned in shallow water. She's shaking erratically, but her eyes lock with mine.

"I got you," she manages. Water or not. Fear or not. She's got me. I nod and we proceed forward. There is no time for gratitude when you are running for your life. We've covered at least three blocks when the screaming begins. Thick, guttural, bouncing off the tunnel walls.

"It's the Avoxes," I say immediately. I woke Peeta up one night after he was making similar noises in his sleep. He sounded like he was choking on a cry. That's what Darius sounded like when they tortured him, Peeta told me before getting up and locking himself in the bathroom for an hour. The screams have stopped, and the hiss is clearer now. Closer.

"Katnissssss."

I shove Pollux on the shoulder toward the sidewalk. Any thought for stealth or quiet is abandoned. We need to move _now_. They're right behind us. We all climb out of the water and start to sprint down the walkway but when our squad reaches the hatch where Pollux planned on descending to another level, it is sealed shut. I shove the Holo into Jackson's hands and she desperately starts punching keys trying to find an alternative route. Pollux points and takes off into another tunnel, but only a few feet in I start gagging and vomit my canned dinner on the cement floor. I cover my mouth and try to stop the odor from invading my senses.

"Masks on!" Jackson orders, but there's no need for it.

It's not poison.

It's roses.

It's a gift.

We push forward, but at the end of the tunnel we hit a wall. We can't go back the way we came as the darkness hisses and screeches my name. The only way out is to jump in the water, swim through the drainage tunnel, and hope it comes out somewhere relatively safe. The shrieking is only a few hundred feet down the tunnel from us. Cressida points her gun, and the flashlight at the end of the barrel illuminates the creatures. We lay our eyes on what was sent to serve us retribution.

These are the demons of dreams. The Muttations' skin is pale as mist. They have human-like qualities - they stand upright, comparably sized to a full-grown man, but thin and lanky, like a starved miner. That is about as far as the resemblance goes. Their bodies are long and serpentine with slits for noses and skin where their eyes should be. They aren't drawn to me by sight – they smell me. One opens its mouth and screeches my name, exposing rows of razor sharp teeth and a tongue that forks out at the end. They are naked and ambiguous, every bone in their body prominent through their skin. They have arched backs and heads that jut forward. Their inhumanly white skin is smeared with gore. The closer they get to me, the more the fury inside them flames. They contort their bodies in rage, lashing out with long, reptilian tails and claws, taking huge chunks of one another or their own bodies with wide, lathered mouths, driven mad by their need to destroy me.

The entire team opens fire and they hiss and thrash with wrath. I choose my arrows without discretion, sending arrowheads, fire, explosives into the Mutts' bodies. They're mortal, but only just. No natural thing could keep coming with two dozen bullets in it. Yes, we can eventually kill them, only there are so many, an endless supply pouring down the tunnel, barreling toward us.

I know these were a gift from Snow, designed especially for me. Blood drips down their white bodies and I can hardly breathe.

Red on white. I see Peeta's blood spatter against the Peacekeeper's uniform as they beat him with barbed bats on the train platform in District 8.

Red on white. I see the old man hauled onto the stage in District 11, a bullet lodged in his brain, speckling the shooter's white gloves in crimson.

Red on white. I see the pool of Cinna's blood pooling on the white tile floor of the Launch Room.

Red on white. I see the guard raise his gun and smash Peeta over the head as he warns District 13 of an imminent attack. Red blood. White floor.

And now, hissing and writhing and putrid, red blood drips from white bodies. I've known death would look like this. Red on white on red on white. It's as if Snow's breathing right in my face, telling me it's time to die.

"Dive!" Jackson screams and our team plummets into the water, swimming desperately toward the drainage tunnel, to wherever the current is leading us. When I hit the tile wall I swim down until I find a small opening, barely larger than my body. My lungs burn but I kick hard, swim forward. The tunnel seems endless, and I start to wonder if we will ever come up for air or if we all might find our watery graves in this pipes. Suddenly there's a burst of bubbles and we surface. The water is waist level, with cement platforms along the walls. Pollux points and croaks. A ladder.

We dart for the ladder, our salvation, when a screech brings us reeling backwards. The Mutts have followed us through the tunnel and are flooding the room with sharp claws and razor teeth. We fight back. Johanna leaps from a platform, burying her axe in a white head before throwing its body off her blade and at an oncoming creature. Cressida shoots as they surface, peppering the water with bullets. It's all-out war. Gale takes out a Mutt lunging for Johanna, but missing a second and its rows of teeth dig into the flesh of her shoulder. She screams and swings the axe aimlessly behind her until it sinks into the creature. The wound is raw and gaping, but she anchors her victim with her foot and pulls the axe from its skull before landing it in the gut of another.

I slide as I launch my assault in motion. I pull an arrow from one victim and slam it into the eye of the next. I use the explosive delay Beetee showed me to arm an arrow before sinking it into the heart of a Mutt. I slam my foot into its chest and send its body hurdling back into the pack, where it explodes. White flesh and rose-scented blood covers my face, scorching with flame. I dive. When I surface and take in the room.

There's a moment in the fight when you recognize the balance has shifted. There's no longer a struggle for victory, there's just the inevitability of defeat. We've been overwhelmed. The Mutts are endless, each one we manage to kill being replaced by more – ruthless, bloodthirsty, vengeful. Everything slows down. Beside me, Johanna hurls her axe into the jaw of one Mutt while the teeth of another graze her torso. Finnick hurls the body of a skewered serpent from his trident and it stifles the path of the next, but two more crawl over the pile, clawing at his flesh. Homes shoots and a Mutt falls to the floor, but the sewer water jams his gun and he smashes it into the head of another creature before he has to dive to avoid an attack. In the corner, Messalla's skin is being stripped from his body as teeth pull the flesh from his bones. Haymitch has nothing left but a short knife. Gale is being held underwater. Jackson never made it on this side of the pipe.

"Everyone out!" I scream, and we flank together. Johanna crawls up the ladder, bleeding heavily. The others follow suit, and I count them as they go until Finnick and I alone stare down a pack of beasts. He presses his back to mine and we divide the room. I send arrow after arrow into their skulls, but the volume of sea monsters is unyielding.

"Go, Katniss!" Finnick screams as he forcibly shoves me toward the ladder.

"I'm not leaving you!" I holler, burying an arrow in a Mutt mere inches from his body. I hear footsteps on above me. Someone is climbing back down. I look up and see Haymitch, eyes wide.

"Get her out of here!" Finnick yells to him, and Haymitch grabs my torso and hauls me up. No! Finnick will die. Finnick will die.

"Stop!" I yell, kicking and screaming, but despite my youth and training, Haymitch is still much larger and stronger than me. He drags me up the rungs of the ladder and I claw at his arms until they bleed under my nails. I throw an elbow in his ribs and his body goes slack for a second, long enough for me to writhe free from his grip and leap back down to the ground.

I hear a heavy thud behind me, and my stomach drops. Haymitch has fallen. I won't be able to pull him out of here. I've killed him. I've killed my mentor. But when I turn around, it's not Haymitch's body I find, but Peeta. He's clearly leaped from street level and is pushing himself to his feet. He ignores me entirely and steps to Finnick.

"Give me the trident and get her out of here," Peeta orders, his voice even. Finnick goes to argue and Peeta's eyes drop to his bleeding leg. He's taken more than one slashing. Finnick won't be able to fend them off long enough for me to escape. Finnick steps toward me and wraps his arms around my waist.

"No! Peeta! No!" I scream as Finnick forces me up the ladder. When he reaches Haymitch they both drag me to the surface as I spit and shriek. Haymitch throws me on the pavement. I hear a bloodcurdling scream from the sewer below, and Gale wraps me in his arms as I pound my fists into his chest. I'm losing my mind with fury and fear.

"Cover the manhole, we can't risk those Mutts getting to street level," Lyme orders, and one of her men throws the heavy metal cover, sealing the fate of the boy below.


	6. Chapter 6 - Casualty

I'm going to be sick. I sob and fight desperately, but my squad holds me in place. _His_ squad holds me in place. Beneath the street we hear shrieks and screeches and screams, until finally the sounds stop and silence takes over. He's dead. The Mutts have retreated to the belly of the sewer. I can't do this. I can't.

"We should move on," Homes pants. "We're exposed here."

The soldiers from 13 push to their feet, but I'm manic.

"I need to see him," I murmur. They don't hear me, and one takes a hand to my elbow and pulls me to my feet. "I need to see him!" I scream, shoving the man away. Lyme stares at me, but she knows. Maybe Homes doesn't, but a victor knows. I need a cannon or a body.

"Let her see," Lyme orders, and one of the men nods and removes the manhole cover. The pungent smell of roses and blood leaks from the sewer like the stench of waste baking in the sun. I swallow hard as my stomach lurches up my throat. I inch toward the sewer opening.

I can't distinguish much of anything below. There are bodies littered everywhere. Blood spattered along the walls, blood dripping from the rungs of the ladder, blood being pulled from floating corpses by the current of the waste water. The sewer is pitch black, save for the spotlight pouring down from the open manhole. Everything below is silent. Still. I hear the rushing of water and nothing else. I see blood and bodies and nothing.

When something shifts below, my chest clenches, but whatever it is, it's not human.

It lifts its face toward the light. Every inch of the creature is crimson, as sinewy warm blood drips from its body. I wait for it to hiss my name. This, the most deadly Mutt, arching its body toward the light. It opens its eyes.

They're blue.

"Peeta," I choke, and the others realize what I do. He's alive. He's alive. "Peeta!" I scream, and Gale slides down the ladder, rope in hand. They pull him from the sewer and he collapses on his knees on the street. Peeta is still clinging to Finnick's trident. Every bit of his body is dripping with thick, clotted blood. He looks like the tip of a paint brush dipped in oil paint. He looks like Johanna did after the blood rain. I hear the soldiers whisper in disbelief. Peeta coughs and blood bursts from his lungs and splatters on the sidewalk. He's breathing it.

I drop in front of him.

"Hey, hey, it's me," I say softly, but his eyes remain planted on the ground, his body shivering.

"Katnisssssssssssssss…" he hisses, and I violently pull back from him on the sidewalk. He's whistling my name like a Mutt. He groans and presses his forehead to the ground, smearing everything he touches with blood.

"We need to move!" another soldier calls out. We're out in the open.

"Leave me," he says into the tile. "I can't hang on."

"Yes, you can!" I tell him, but Peeta shakes his head. He reaches for his shoulder, where his nightlock pill is buried under a mess of remains, and I swat his hand back.

His eyes shoot up to me and meet mine. The pupils blow out and recede, his eyes begging me desperately. He's in pain. He's in so much pain. He is trying to fight it, and it's agony. "Can't you see I want out of this?"

The problem is I can see. I just don't care. I'm too selfish.

"Peeta, we have to move," I say, ignoring his statement. I can't process that right now.

"I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them." Like the Mutts. Like the rabid beasts bent on ripping my throat out. Their blood is seeping into his skin, their scent has invaded his lungs. It's like he's being triggered over and over and over. Trigger. Trigger. Trigger.

He thinks he's going to kill me.

"You promised me," I insist, reaching out for him.

"We weren't supposed to be together!" he panics, recoiling back from me. "I wasn't supposed to make it out of that sewer." He's panting, sweating through the blood and vibrating like a string of a piano, struck by a hammer.

I drop to my knees and bury my hands in his blood-soaked hair. I pull his face up to mine. "Peeta, stay with me," I ask calmly. I press my mouth softly to his, and like so many of our kisses, it's full of blood and sweat, but it's still us. His pupils blow out and recede until they are clear. Steady. Blue.

"Always," he whispers, and I pull him to his feet.

"You okay?" I mouth. He nods. I look around. Where are we? The Transfer.

The remains of my team straighten their weapons and tend to their wounds. Cressida and Pollux look pale and stoic. I don't see Castor. I don't know when we lost him. Homes and Haymitch are weaponless, save the short blade we each store in our boot. Johanna's shoulder and torso are a mess. She hisses as Gale tightens a piece of cloth over her arm. Finnick chooses to ignore his open leg wound entirely. The last Leeg sits panting on the floor.

"Where's Jackson?" Lyme asks. She doesn't bother asking about Boggs. They must have seen the footage. Finnick just shakes his head quietly. "Alright then, fall in."

My attention drifts to Lyme's team. It's mostly elite from 13. The only real familiar face is Xander and the young kid from the rescue mission. The squad seems mostly intact. Names are passed around, but I don't retain any of it. My eyes are on Peeta. Apparently their squad had also gone underground and had planned on taking out the Transfer when the saw our team flooding out from the level below.

"Given that your unit has lost its commander, we will need to consolidate. Boggs briefed me on your mission to reach the Presidential Palace. That is now our priority," Lyme says. One of her men hands her a Holo, and she pulls up a map of the Transfer. I stare at the smooth, pastel-tiled street lined with white brick walls. They try to discern the safest place to surface street-level from the Transfer, analyzing to pods that appear in the city blocks above us. I don't focus on her words. Instead I listen to the silence of the space, how even our whispers echo off the walls.

"The pods are deactivated during the day, right?" I ask.

"Yes," Lyme confirms, "to allow for the movement of vehicles."

"It's got to be morning by now. The pods should be off," I add.

"Yes, we entered the Transfer at dawn," she agrees.

Haymitch realizes before everyone else does. "So… where are the trucks?" he asks, and it suddenly hits everyone. Why is this space, which was buzzing with life hours ago, now entirely empty?

The ground begins to rumble beneath us and we all jet our arms out to keep from falling. An unmarked pod detonates, exploding sharp bits of shrapnel in all directions. The young kid from the rescue collapses, a wedge of metal protruding from his eye. We take off running.

It happens silently.

A golden beam of light shoots down from the ceiling and encompasses Johanna. She immediately freezes, as if she's been suspended in midair. Her fists are clenched tight, she is perched on the ball of her foot, captured midstride. I can't tell if she can see or hear us.

That's when she starts to disintegrate. I scream, lunging forward, but Peeta grabs my body and pulls me back. Gale turns toward my scream in time to witness Johanna leave us, and he watches her fade to dust. The light beam dies, and there isn't even enough powder on the ground to pick up, to bury, to honor. Gale's eyes are wide, his jaw slack. The light beam suddenly opens up next to me, and I feel intense heat billowing from the ray. I swing to my side and barely avoid it. Another opens up and pours down to my right.

"Move! You need to get out of there!" Xander screams, and we take off, all except Gale, who is frozen in front of Johanna's ashes. There is no survival instinct. There is no moving away. I sprint toward my best friend.

"Gale, please!" I beg, shaking his shoulders. I can feel the tears pouring down my cheeks and I try to push it down. "Stopping is not an option! Gale, do this for me. Move!" He stares at the ground, his eyes disjointed, unfocused. "We grieve later. We can't stop. Johanna knew that. She was a victor. She knew that!" I ramble. "Dammit, Hawthorne, I will drag you out of here if I have to!"

He blinks, turns, and walks away from Johanna. He moves with no urgency at all, though beams of light flash and drop sporadically from the ceiling. It's like watching someone walk as the sky rains fire. He doesn't care. When we finally reach the edges of the pod's limits, he mutters, "I guess she was right." I have no idea what that means.

Finnick looks damaged. Damaged like when he lost Mags. The wall beside us explodes as a bullet smashes into the white tile, peppering us with broken plaster. We all snap back into focus. I look up in time to see a crew of Peacekeepers descend on our team. We fire back, but their military armor has few weak points. I hear a bullet zip past my shoulder and Leeg falls and hits the ground hard. Two of Lyme's men drop. Peeta looks at Leeg's fallen body, then at me. His eyes set, and he raises his gun. He needs no more than a bullet per soldier, firing methodically into their vulnerabilities – the neck, the eye shield. The Peacekeepers drop one by one as if Peeta's playing a game. As if these soldiers are target practice. A white-armored body falls forward and the Meat Grinder engages. If we don't move now, we'll never get out of the Transfer.

"Jump!" I scream as the floor begins to divide. The ground opens its mouth like a carnivorous plant. We leap forward, each slamming into the tile on the other side with force. We all make it, all except the old man. I watch as the floor carries him away from me.

"Haymitch!" I yell. The floor is easily wider now than Haymitch is tall. He can't make this jump. "Haymitch!" Not today. Not now. Not after Johanna.

"Go ahead. You guys get out of here. I'll figure out something, sweetheart," he calls out. There is no other way around. My eyes burn as I scan the room. Slick tile and nothing else. Peeta pulls away from my side and I look at him in disbelief. We are not leaving out mentor behind. He walks a few feet down the tunnel and turns back.

"Move!" he calls out, and I realize what he's doing before I can formulate the words. He sprints forward toward the Meat Grinder, its innards a mess of mechanical teeth that chew the tile floor to dust. Peeta lands on his fake leg and pushes off. Whatever mechanics Beetee has worked into the limb pay off, and Peeta soars over the lethal cavern, landing next to Haymitch on the other side.

"Smart, boy. Now what?" Haymitch says with furious sarcasm. Peeta grabs his arm, but he has no interest in being saved. Not if it means losing one of his kids. Peeta can't carry him over the pod kicking and screaming.

"Everyone back up!" I yell as I gesture for the teams to retreat away from the mechanical mouth. I pull out Boggs's Holo. I remember the command to disengage, to set the device to detonate. I hold the machine to my lips and whisper, "Nightlock. Nightlock. Nightlock." I let it slip from my fingers and into the Meat Grinder. It explodes.

The violence of the blast sends us all flying backward. My eyes are full of large white spots from the brilliance of the blast, and my ears ring. We all push ourselves up, and I stay on my knees for a minute, disoriented and sick.

The Meat Grinder is dead. Below is nothing but rubble and bits of mechanics strewn about the gap. One of Lyme's men looks at me.

"What? The Transfer is dead now. That's what you wanted, right?" I ask.

"That was a stupid use of the Holo and you know it. What if we lose this one?" he asks, pointing at Lyme's Holo with an angry fist.

"Try not to," I answer, and behind him Finnick smirks.

Peeta and Haymitch crawl across the disengaged pod. When Haymitch reaches me, he shoots me a grim glare.

"Don't you do that again. Next time you have to choose between saving me and saving yourself, you move on. Got it, sweetheart?" he answers.

"Now you know how I feel," I retort, turning away from him.

Lyme enters some coordinates in the Holo, but before she can sort out a path Pollux is pointing to a tunnel with a ladder. It's small and narrow, clearly another utility access point like the one we entered the system through. We need to get out of here. Lyme nods and takes the lead up the rungs. She loads her gun and we move cautiously until we reach the entrance to an apartment. We push open the lid and find ourselves in another identical utility room in another identical Capitol suite. We flood into the space when a Capitol woman opens the door to the utility. She gasps, her greasy lipstick-smeared mouth ajar as a sausage slips from her fingers and hits the floor. A look of recognition crosses her face and she goes to scream.

Before I blink, Lyme plunges a short blade through her heart. The fat woman droops lifelessly to the floor. Two of Lyme's men take the Capitolite body and shove it into the laundry closet. My eyes dart back to Lyme in disbelief.

We're not just following a Victor.

We're following a Career.


	7. Chapter 7 - Sacrifice

Peeta sits shivering on the edge of the bathtub in the dark of early morning. The blood is no longer dripping down his body, but congealed and sticky and cold. The lavatory is entirely white with a porcelain claw-foot bathtub. There's electricity, but Lyme has ordered us to keep the lights off, so instead all we see by is the barely present light of early dawn and the flame of a candle flickering on the edge of the vanity. Vanity. Finally something the Capitol named right. Peeta's eyes are locked on the bloody footprints that smear the bathroom floor from the door to where he sits now. An obnoxious white shag rug lies in front of the bath and I kick it away.

Outside the bathroom door I hear the rest of the unit doing as they were told. Lyme has her men checking for spare food, refilling water jugs, searching for any other usable supplies. Gale is stitching up Finnick's leg, but he's hasn't said a word since we lost Johanna. Who the woman was screaming for is unknown as a search of her apartment turned up nothing. I wonder if it was an expression of fear more than a cry for help. Either way, the unit is empty.

I set the gray slacks and black shirt on the back of the toilet. Peeta's clothes are ruined so I helped myself to what I could find. One closet held hundreds of the woman's outfits, coats, pairs of shoes, a rainbow of wigs, enough makeup to paint a house. A matching closet on the far side revealed a similar selection for men. Perhaps they belonged to her husband. Perhaps to a lover who had the good luck to be out this morning. I swallowed as I dug through what was likely a dead man's closet. It took a while to find something that wasn't shiny or neon. The shirt is silk, but it's the least conspicuous thing I came across.

I reach for the top button on Peeta's shirt and he lifts his hand to stop me. He raises his eyes to mine. He looks dead.

"You shouldn't be close to me while I'm like this," he manages.

"We need to get you cleaned up," I offer, but he doesn't reply. His eyes are unfocused, his free hand is balled in a fist in his lap. He rocks ever so slightly, trying to keep himself present. "Come on, you'll feel better after," I say softly. He finally he nods and drops his hands to his side.

I peel his shirt away. The blood has soaked through entirely staining the skin of his torso crimson. I drop the shirt to the floor and it lands with a wet thud. Peeta's skin prickles as I trace my fingertips over his body, trying suss out any injuries. I find a raw, open gash that runs a few inches along his ribs, but other than that nothing. Well, nothing new.

I unbuckle his belt and tug his pants off. My fingers linger over his leg. "Can I take this off?" I whisper. He nods and I release the prosthetic and lay it delicately on the tile floor. "Okay, let's, um… can you get in the tub?" He's silently lowers himself inside the empty basin. I look under the sink and find a cup. I picture the turquoise-haired women sipping water from the cup to rinse toothpaste out of her mouth. I picture her now, dead and crammed into a closet like a broom that won't stay upright.

I turn on the faucet in the tub and run my hand under the water until it's comfortable. Peeta leans against the side of the porcelain bath, too tired to sit up. The tub slowly fills and I fill the cup with water. I feel like we are next to the river again, his body caked in mud and racked with fever. I pour the cup of water gently over his hair, lightly scratching his scalp with my fingernails as I work out the clots. I watch as the water pulls the blood away from his body.

He finally breathes.

Peeta lets his face relax and I scrub the stain off his skin. When I reach his hands, he pulls them in fists defensively toward his body.

"Peeta," I whisper and he finally gives them to me. His palms are covered in tiny half-moon cuts. He's been digging his nails into his hands, pushing until he felt his skin give. Some of the wounds are deep. I don't know how he held a gun.

"The blood was triggering you?" I state more than ask, and he nods to confirm. He used the pain to anchor himself. To find something real. He opens his eyes and a clear blue meets mine. I bite the inside of my cheek. The water is a foot deep now and Peeta pulls himself down and slips underneath. He breathes in and shoots back up, spitting and coughing the water out of his lungs, along with little spatters of Mutt meat. He drops his body against the side of the tub again and I run my fingers through his hair.

"They said you were dead," he whispers softly, humming and nudging toward my hand.

"They lied," I reply gently.

"I killed all those people," he mutters, his tone racked with guilt.

"You had to. You saved us," I insist, but he pulls away.

"I think we should split up again," Peeta says and a pit opens in my stomach.

"No," I say immediately, my voice firm.

"We have no idea what else out here might trigger me. Clearly it's not just words," he insists. "It's not safe." He's trying to speak logically. He's trying to appeal to what we both know. He's right, I know he is, but I can't let him say anymore, I can't let him win, so instead I lean forward and press my mouth to his. He inhales quickly and the breath catches in his throat. "Katniss," he breathes, but his hands reach up to my cheeks and slide back into my hair. We kiss slowly over the edge of the bath.

"Come on, let's get you dressed," I say, pulling the plug from the water. I find him a towel and he dries off before pulling on the clothes I dug out of the closet. He eyes me as he buttons the black silk shirt. I shrug. I pick up the bloody clothes from the floor and toss them in the bathtub. Peeta stops and turns back to the pile. He kneels into the tub and grabs a hold of his jacket. He cringes – even touching the blood for a second triggers the starts of a migraine – but he keeps digging until I realize what he's doing. He pulls the nightlock pull from the shoulder of his jacket and slips it into his pocket before washing his hands in the sink.

"Peeta –" I start, but he stops me.

"I can't do it again. He can't… he can't have me," Peeta replies. He's careful not to say _Snow_. Even thinking of the trigger causes some discomfort, though, and he shifts on his feet.

We rejoin the others, and seeing Peeta in a shiny silk shirt even makes Gale crack a smile. It's there briefly, then gone again, like a cloud of breath evaporated into winter's air.

"I still have my pack," Xander offers, and leans down. He pulls an extra jacket from the backpack and offers it to Peeta. It's too small, the arms are short, but it will do. Peeta zips it over his chest and nods in thanks. The rest of the team focuses on Lyme, but I watch as Peeta slides the purple pill from his pocket into the shoulder of the jacket.

"We need to move out of here. We are too close to the last place we were seen," Lyme says, although I'm not sure our crew is in a place to move. Cressida's face is bloodless. Finnick is probably the worst off among us having faced the Mutts practically on his own. He puts weight on his leg gingerly, but if we need to sprint he's in trouble. I'm running on hate, but that's bound to wear off, and when it does the pain of today is going to ground me to a halt. Lyme has five remaining soldiers plus Peeta, and they are all relatively uninjured.

"Mac, Sterling, what did you find for supplies?" Lyme asks, and two of the men step forward and drop their discoveries on the table. I'm surprised with the informality with which she addresses her team, but I remind myself she isn't Jackson. She isn't from 13. We pick through cans of food, kitchen cutlery, matches, blankets, fresh socks, a black winter cap, a first aid kit, and a bottle of white liquor. I see Haymitch step back uncomfortably. I snatch the bottle and add it to my pack. Could be good for disinfecting wounds. Peeta takes the black hat and tugs it on over his recognizable blonde curls. Not a bad idea.

"Gil, what did we find on the weapons inventory?" Lyme shifts her attention to a larger man in the back of the kitchen. That's the man who criticized me about the Holo. He gives his report. We don't have enough weapons to go around. Homes lifted a couple guns from the fallen Peacekeepers, but in the end at least one person will be weaponless. Gale drops his crossbow on the table, offering it to the team. My eyes dart to him. I don't want him weaponless.

"Gale, that's not a smart idea," I say, and he locks his stare with mine.

"It's fine," he says.

"It's not fine!" I blurt out. "I need you. In the palace. I need you," I answer, trying to appeal to reason.

"No one else here is trained in that weapon. I appreciate the gesture, but it's unnecessary," Lyme responds, picking the crossbow up and placing it back in his empty hands.

"I'll just use my knife," Haymitch says and my stomach lurches. "I'm the worst shot. It makes sense." Most everyone else nods, but I swallow hard and try not to wretch my stomach contents on the floor.

"Haymitch," I whisper in protest, but he shakes his head.

"You know it's the right thing to do, sweetheart. I was never here for my combat skills. I'm here to help you fight smart. Homes having a weapon over me is smart. You've seen him shoot," Haymitch argues. My eyes sting and I bat them quickly.

"Fine, let's move out," I answer. I sort my gear and try to look like I have more composure than I do.

Lyme and Cressida go over the map. Cressida is familiar with the area, having an apartment only a few blocks from here. When I spy the map I'm shocked by how close we are to the Presidential Palace. Less than ten blocks. Days' worth of travel, given the pods, but it's the first positive thing that's come of this journey. I go to the window and look out on the streets. Instead of an army of Peacekeepers, I'm faced with a bundled crowd of people going about their business.

"They might not detonate these pods. Look at the crowds of people," I offer.

"They would to kill us," Haymitch says. I know he's right. "Unless…"

We look at him.

"Unless?" Lyme asks.

"Unless they didn't know it was us," he finishes.

"We're not going to pass for Capitol citizens, even dressed in this dead lady's wardrobe," Gil states.

"We don't need to be out there long. There's a rebel safe house near here," Cressida answers, pointing at the Holo map. "We get here, we'll have some time to coordinate. Figure out our next move."

Gil sighs with exacerbation and looks at Lyme. "She's not even in their unit. She's just the camera chick. We can't go out there dressed like clowns with the Mockingjay in tow. We'll get spotted in a second. These people have some kind of death wish!" At Mockingjay, Peeta twitches and balls his fists.

"We can't stay here, Gil," Lyme responds firmly.

"But –"

"That is enough, Soldier Steele," she says with such authority I have to stop my feet from taking a step back. "We'd be on the street less than five minutes if we take this route. Is this a reasonable course?" Lyme asks Cressida, who look at the map and nods.

"It's a shopping area. Boutiques and things like that," Cressida replies.

"Good," Lyme nods. It seems like we have a plan, until the glass from the front window shatters and a grenade rolls into the room, bouncing at our feet like a stray apple fallen from a grocery bag.

"Everybody out!" Lyme screams, and we all leap away from the explosion as the device detonates. The air feels hot, but we aren't set aflame. We aren't burning. I feel Peeta and Finnick on top of me, pressing me hard into the floor. Why are we alive? Why are we alive?

We roll over and find Lyme's dismembered body lying on top of the explosive.


	8. Chapter 8 - Somewhere to Hide

Peacekeepers flood the apartment through the front door, peppering the room indiscriminately with bullets. Gil drops hard, but before any of us can even think to react, Peeta flips the kitchen table and kicks it at the oncoming soldiers, shoving them all back a few feet and knocking weapons from their hands. He leaps over the fallen table into the mess of them.

Hand-to-hand combat training kicks in. Use their weight against them. Stay low. When a Peacekeeper charges me, I sweep my leg underneath him and knock him to the floor. I see Haymitch grab a knife from the kitchen block as he's struggling with another. He has his arms around the Peacekeeper's neck from behind, and the Peacekeeper slams him back into the wall. Haymitch drops the knife but doesn't let go of the man, crushing his throat. The Peacekeeper claws and struggles in his arms, but eventually he succumbs to the lack of oxygen and collapses to the ground. Haymitch falls with him, his face beat red.

I feel someone behind me and turn to witness Finnick snaps my assailant's neck. He drops his body.

"You okay?" he asks. I nod but hear an awful gurgle, and when I turn back Xander has fallen onto the counter, blood dripping from his mouth. A Peacekeeper stands over him, and without hesitation I grab an arrow from my sheath slam it into the black eyepiece. The combatant topples over.

In response, a Peacekeeper raises his gun to my head. Without hesitation, Peeta grabs the barrel of the loaded weapon, rips it from his hand, and smashes it into the Peacekeeper's head like he's swinging a bat.

The kitchen is littered with bodies. We're out of enemies, but Gale is furious. A Peacekeeper lies beneath him on the floor; his white helmet is shattered and crumpled into his head. Gale swings at the man brutally with the butt of his crossbow. He's bloodied beyond repair. Gale beats at the corpse well after the man's life has slipped away, as if it might bring her back.

"Gale!" I say, trying to take his elbow, but he doesn't stop. He throws his crossbow to the ground and punches the man's face, splitting open his knuckles on the Peacekeeper's shattered teeth. "Gale, he's dead!" I cry out, and my words finally register. He freezes, fist balled, ready to descend on the man. Gale's eyes are wild, his body heaving and shaking. He looks at the corpse beneath him and stands up. I try to touch his shoulder but he flinches and jerks away from me. He places his bloody hands on the counter.

"They must have seen Katniss through the window," Haymitch suggests, and in an instant I know he's right. I'm furious with myself.

"We have to get out of here, they'll send reinforcements any minute," Finnick adds.

"Gil was right, we're not going to sneak around playing dress up from this lady's closets," Mac or Sterling says. I don't really know which one is which. Aside from Peeta, they are all that's left of Lyme's unit.

"We don't have to play dress up from the closets," I murmur, staring down at the fallen Peacekeepers that litter the floor.

I can't help but wonder what happened to Bonnie and Twill as we dress in our opponent's uniforms. I never saw them in 13. I assume they died in the blizzard. Maybe even sooner. I watch Gale as he tries to pull the Peacekeeper gloves over his hands. They are already starting to swell, and he struggles to stretch his fingers. I stare at the pile of dead Peacekeepers. They somehow look more vulnerable in their undergarments. More like victims. I start gagging as guilt rises to the back of my throat and I swallow the bile back into my stomach. Peeta catches me staring at them and whispers, "It's okay to mourn them. The people in the Capitol are real too."

"What?" I whisper back.

"They're people, too," he repeats, and it registers. His eyes flick up to mine. "I've said that before. Real or not real?"

"Real," I answer. He's starting to remember.

"At least we've restocked on weapons," Finnick says as he hands Haymitch a rifle.

"How long do we have to pull this charade off?" my mentor grumbles back.

"Ten minutes, maybe less," Cressida answers. "The safe house is only a few blocks."

Finnick steps in front of me, straightening my shoulder pads. "Once we put these helmets on, I'm not going to be able to tell which one of us is you. I want you to stay right behind me, got it? I move left, you move left," he orders. I nod. Peeta lines up behind me, taking guard from the rear. I want to argue. This isn't just about me anymore, but right now we need to move.

Cressida takes point. The rest of our unit falls in line behind her. We raise guns across our chests as we march like we've seen the Peacekeepers do so many times before. Our uniforms are bloody and broken, but it's war. Gale takes up the back of the line, carrying a large duffel bag that includes my bow, the Holo, some canned food, and not much else.

"Here we go," Cressida says, and we slip out onto the streets. Agitated people swirl around us, speaking of rebels and hunger and me in their affected Capitol accents. Being a Peacekeeper is strange. Some people step out of our way, ceding the path to our band of soldiers. Some stare at us with fear, others with gratitude. Some give us a wide girth to pass; others pull closer to us as though we offer some safety, which is frankly absurd in a war zone. I try to do what a Peacekeeper would – head up, eyes down, blindly follow the soldier in front of me.

We pass another band of Peacekeepers and my heart starts to slam inside my chest. They are heading toward the apartment. Clearly this is the cavalry. It will only be moments before they are inside, before they find the bare bodies of their fallen comrades. I'm just about to mouth "run" when a siren begins to wail. The Peacekeepers immediately turn around and take formation, marching toward a specific destination. We should be responding. Cressida begins to jog and we all follow suit. _Look like we have somewhere to go._

We turn a corner and find ourselves in a neighborhood with a small fleet of apartments. At our presence, residents close their doors and shutter their windows. With Peacekeepers only comes death. War. The name offers nothing more than irony now. We follow Cressida a few more blocks and turn through a gate into what looks like a private residence. It's some kind of shortcut, though, because after walking through a manicured garden, we come out onto a small back street that connects two main avenues. This is clearly not the "nice" part of town. There are a few shops – one selling used goods, another fake jewelry. We stop before a grimy storefront filled with mannequins in furry underwear. Cressida open the front door of the shop setting off a dissonant chiming.

The dim, narrow shop is lined with racks of merchandise. The smell of animal pelts fills my nose. At the sight of us, a hunched figure in the back stands tall. At the sight of her I'm taken aback. Of all the freakish things I've seen in the Capitol, this woman is the strangest person I've ever seen. Her nose has been flattened and her skin stretched tight across her face. Black and gold striped tattoos run along her cheeks and into her hairline. Long cat whiskers shoot out from her nose. She's grotesque. It makes me queasy just looking at her face. I wonder what she looked like as a child. I wonder what color her eyes were before she had her pupils reshaped into slits. Not even the Capitol finds her beautiful, and the surgically-enhanced mistake of a human has been shuddered away to this back alley shop.

"I already paid Head Peacekeeper Page my protection dues for the week," the semi-feline woman hisses defensively.

Cressida removes her helmet, revealing the tattooed vines that make a garden of her scalp. We need your help," she says. The woman hesitates, not sure how much trouble she's getting herself into. "Plutarch said we could trust you," Cressida adds.

I take off my helmet as well, and when the Capitolite recognizes me she growls in a way not unlike Buttercup might if I tried to touch him. Finally, Haymitch removes his helmet and their eyes meet. It suddenly clicks where I know her from.

 _Tigris_. She was part of the Hunger Games. A stylist, I think. The reason she was banished from the Games and subjected to running some kitsch underwear shop is unknown to me, but she knows Haymitch.

"Hey kitten," he says, and Tigris purrs affectionately. "We need help." She slinks down off her stool and disappears behind a rack of fur-lined leggings. There's a sound of sliding, and then her hand emerges and waves us forward.

At the base of the back wall, a panel has been slid back revealing a dark, steep cement stairwell. Great. More time underground. Regardless, we need to regroup. She gestures for us to enter, and although everything inside me is screaming to stop, we descend the stairs to a cool, shadowy cellar. It's dry at least, shallow and wide. Probably just a strip between two real basements. A place whose existence could go unnoticed unless you had a very keen eye for dimensions. Racks of dusty, old pelts line the walls. What little light there is comes from a few lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. There are no windows or doors other than the one we entered. She shows us a spare closet in the back, and we strip out of the Peacekeeper uniforms and shove them as best we can into the designated storage area.

Tigris watches us attentively and I have a moment of panic. I find myself turning to our host, searching those tawny eyes. Why is she doing this? She's no Cinna, someone willing to sacrifice herself for others. This woman was the embodiment of Capitol superficiality. She was one of the stars of the Hunger Games until . . . until she wasn't. So is that it, then?

"Did Snow ban you from the Games?" I ask. She just stares back at me. Somewhere her tiger tail flicks with displeasure.

"Because I'm going to kill him, you know." Her mouth spreads into what I take for a smile. She slides the panels shut, concealing our location. I hear wheels rolling above as she moves the clothing displays back into place.

Mac digs some cans of food from our bag and passes them around. We eat silently. The tin sits in front of Gale untouched, his back pressed against the wall. I get up from my spot and slide down beside him.

"You need to eat," I say, picking up his can from the floor and placing it in his hands.

"I'm not hungry," he replies, peeling the label away from the aluminum. I try for a few minutes, but ultimately I give up.

We attempt to use Lyme's Holo, but it's useless to us. She never transferred clearance, and the only other person in the unit authorized to access the maps was Gil, who lies dead with the Peacekeepers in our last hideaway.

"We could detonate it, at least," Finnick offers, and I slide it into my bag. 13 programmed the Holos so anyone with the code word could destroy the device, regardless of authorization. They don't want the information getting in the wrong hands.

Cressida tells us the best route to the presidential mansion. Peeta sketches out a map of our area on a piece of scrap paper as she describes buildings and streets. He holds it up to her for review, and for a moment I'm sitting in my bed, heel throbbing, looking at pencil sketches of plants before Peeta inks them delicately into my family's plant book. Cressida nods, and Peeta replicates the map on a second piece of paper in case our group somehow gets separated.

"You've spent more time in the mansion than any of us, Peeta," Haymitch says, and Peeta shifts uncomfortably. "What do you remember?"

"I try not to," Peeta replies quietly. Peeta was held there for a week before he was sent down to the dungeon. They needed him healthy for the first propo. He balls his hands into fists and I know he's digging his nails into his palms, although this time it's not to avoid a trigger, it's to avoid a memory.

Cressida scoots across the room and sits cross-legged in front of Peeta. She can coax things out of people. She's coaxed words I didn't know I had out of me. She looks at Peeta only, like the rest of us don't exist, like there is no one but the two of them.

"What was the first thing you saw in the mansion?" Cressida asks. "Just focus on that one thing. Was it a lamp maybe? Or a table?"

Peeta closes his eyes are breathes out slowly. "I woke up on the floor," he answers. "The room had a bed, but they left me on the floor. When I woke up I saw this fancy carpet."

"Was that the first thing you saw after the Arena?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, his eyes still closed. "I woke up staring at a carpet. I looked around for Katniss and she wasn't there, and that's when I realized they'd made it out. That Snow didn't have her."

I blink back tears as I remember waking up without him. The sheer horror. Panic. Fear.

"What did you feel?" Cressida leads.

"I felt… relieved. Katniss was safe. That was all I wanted," he answers.

"What else?" Cressida asks.

"Tired. Scared. It wasn't like my last Games, where they gave me medical attention and polished away every mar on my skin. I wasn't the Victor of the Quell. I was a rebel. I was a problem," Peeta explains.

"What did you room look like?" Cressida asks, focusing on what we need to know.

"Everything was gold. Gold embroidery on the curtains, gold goblets on the table. I wasn't supposed to touch anything," Peeta says softly, like remembering a scolding from his childhood.

"Where was your interview?" she asks.

"It was…" he starts, but scrunches his face up. These memories are from before the hijacking, too. They are blurry. "We walked down a hall. The guards kept reiterating what I was supposed to say. We, um, we passed by a long corridor that was lined with guards. At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors that reached all the way to the ceiling."

We all look at each other. What could be that heavily guarded in the palace? It must be Snow's office.

"Do you remember anything else?" Cressida coaches. Peeta takes in a shaky breath.

"The room for the interview was on the same floor as the gold room and the room with the double doors. It was small. Or at least, it felt small," Peeta intimates, a barely perceptible tremble in his voice. "The room was full of guards. When I, uh, when I didn't say what they wanted, they hit my across the face with the butt of a gun. Caesar started freaking out, but then he shut up and watched as they threw me through the doorway."

Caesar, who always felt strangely on my side even though he wasn't. Caesar, who tried to coax the best out of every tribute. Did he actually care about any of us? Why would he?

 _Everyone has a story, Katniss._

"When they threw you out of the doorway, did you land on the floor?" Cressida asks.

"Yes," Peeta answers.

"What did the floor look like?" she presses gently.

"I don't remember," he answers with some anxiety in his voice.

"That's okay. Do you remember looking at it when you walked in? Were you watching your feet?" Cressida coaxes with a soft voice.

"Yes. It was… It was white with flecks of gold in it. Tile. The grout was shiny and smooth, like solid gold," he answers, his voice shaking more overtly now.

"Where did you go after they threw you out, Peeta?" Cressida asks, and he shakes his head vehemently. "Peeta?"

"Then they made me go to the Tribute Center. My prep team was waiting for me on stage. There were cameras everywhere. I assumed they were readying me for another propo," Peeta mumbles.

"Was it?" Cressida asks.

"No," Peeta replies softly, barely speaking at all.

"What was it then?" Cressida leads.

"It was my fault," he chokes.

"What was?" Cressida replies.

"They were shot right in front of me. One at a time. They took time in between so the next in line could sob first. It was my fault, because I didn't say what they wanted me to say," he manages, but he can barely breathe.

"It wasn't your fault, Peeta," Finnick offers, but Peeta opens his eyes and shakes his head.

"I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, I can't do this," he mumbles as he gets up and walks across the tiny room.

"It's more than we knew an hour ago," Cressida says, and while I know she's right, I keep my eyes on Peeta as he paces the far end of the room, balling his hands into fists.

It's early still, but the room is dark and none of us have really slept in days.

"We should all get some rest," I state, and everyone nods in agreement. We make beds out of the spare pelts. We finally strip our weapons from our bodies and leave them on the floor beside us. Everyone settles in, but Peeta's still up – moving, rocking, trying to shake the memories. I approach him slowly, like a wounded animal.

"Hey, you need to sleep," I say quietly, but he's muttering to himself. "Peeta," I say, and when I put my hand on his arm he startles until his pale blue eyes lock on mine. "Come sleep with me," I whisper, and he nods. I manage to pry apart his fists and place bandages over his palms. We settle in, me sitting up slightly. Peeta lays his head on my chest and curls into me. It's sort of like the cave, only in reverse. I run my fingers through his hair until he drifts off. In the dark, I hear Pollux weeping silently to himself. He can't even cry properly for his brother as the sobs resonate in his tongueless mouth. Snow took everything from him. Eventually Pollux sleeps, too.

Across the dark room Gale remains seated, his back pressed against the wall as he hugs his knees to his chest. His slate gray eyes find mine.

"I'm so sorry, Gale," I whisper. I'm sure we all come off as cold. We can't stop. You can't mourn in an Arena. I think about those we victors have left behind. I think of Mags jerking in the fog. I think of Wiress floating in the salt lake. I think of Seeder sinking into blackness.

"We don't have time for that, she's dead," he mutters, interrupting my thoughts with as if the words he's said have meaning.

"What?" I breathe into the darkness.

"That's what I said in the Block. That's why we fought that night. It's why Jo went back to your room. Because she thought if she died on the battlefield, that I'd be so obsessed with the mission I wouldn't even stop." The words barely have any tone; it's more air and disbelief than speech. "I wouldn't even stop," he mutters.

"That is not what she meant. She wouldn't want you to die for her," I try to argue, but he buries himself beneath the fur and rolls away from me. My eyes burn and I bat away the tears. I need her here, too. A fury boils in my stomach and I try to breathe it away, but all I see is the pile of dust we left behind.

I try to focus on the boy with his arms wrapped around my waist. I try to focus on his hot breath on my skin, but instead I'm haunted by the empty aching blue of Peeta's eyes when he opened them after reliving the execution. There is a vacancy in them I don't recognize.

He's remembering.

I wonder if that's really a good thing.


	9. Chapter 9 - Plans Nobody Likes

The fire inside me has flickered out, and with it my strength. I stay awake. I am not sure how long everyone else is asleep. There is no light down here to tell us the passing of time – no moon or sun or stars. Tigris's feet stopped pacing in the shop upstairs hours ago and they have yet to resume their worried tread. Peeta's breathing stills. He's awake.

"Hey," I whisper, and he squeezes his arms around my waist and buries his face in my chest.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asks, his words muddled on my skin.

"A little," I answer, which I suppose is true if you count the one or two times my head bobbed.

"Why don't you sleep some more now?" Peeta offers. I shake my head. It's pointless. Instead we lay together silently, feeling each other breathe. "I don't know how to tell Annie about Jo," he says softly.

"Finnick will," I say, but he shakes his head.

"No, I should tell her. And Effie. It should come from me," he responds. I can't pretend to understand the bond they have. This must be what it's like for Gale, staring at the victors from the outside. The captives are connected in a way the rest of us can't penetrate. They don't need words to understand what the other wants or needs or feels. They know the difference between each other's cries, laughs, tones, breaths. They know each other.

Eventually the others wake. We pass around cans of food and drink water from a hose in the cellar. I lean against the cement wall, retracing the events of the last couple days. Moving death by death. Counting them up on my fingers. One – Boggs, legless and unable to flee. Two – Leeg 1, thrown into a wall. Three – Mitchell, forfeiting himself to the net of razor wire. Four – Jackson, sacrificing herself to hold off the Mutts. Five – Messalla, stripped of his skin. Six – Castor, lost in the sewer. Seven – Johanna, shattering in light. Eight, Nine, Ten – the last Leeg and Lyme's men, Peacekeeper bullets in their chests. Eleven – Lyme blown to bits. Twelve, Thirteen – Gil and Xander, put down in the fight.

Thirteen. One for every district. I know it happened, but somehow it doesn't feel real.

Should I count the innocents lost in our wake? Those from the Capitol? The woman crushed in her closet? The one stabbed in her heart? The piles of Peacekeepers?

I'm sure Johanna will call me brainless any minute, say our plan stupid. I'm sure Castor is asleep under that pile of furs. To believe them dead is to accept that I killed them. That getting me to Snow was more important than them being alive. I know it was the mission, but I never asked for any of this. I asked to kill Snow, but I didn't demand a fleet of soldiers willing to die for me.

"Homes," I breathe, and everyone looks up at me. "Where's Homes?"

"Kat, we lost Homes," Finnick answers, careful to keep his voice even.

"When?" I demand. That's not true. I would have noticed. I would have…

"At the apartment, right after Gil," he answers.

"What?" I choke out. "That was… that was hours ago!" My mind is racing as I try to replay the scene. There were at least a dozen Peacekeepers, I could have lost track of Homes in the fight, but then I remember Lyme had five soldiers, now there's only two. We lost one other in that skirmish, not just Gil and Xander. I feel like I'm choking and clear my throat. "Right," I coldly respond, and focus on my can of food, pretending like I'm not losing my mind.

We all continue our meal in silence, but the guilt is festering in my stomach, twisting my insides in knots like one of Finnick's ropes. The onus of all these deaths is unbearable. No more people should die for me.

"Boggs said our mission was to reach the presidential mansion," I say to the room, and everyone looks up at me. " _We_ were supposed to get there, not just me. He never said the mission was for me to kill Snow. Everyone that's died so far died trying to get me there. I don't want that. I don't want any more of you throwing yourselves in front of pods and mutts and bombs for me. That was never the mission. That was just a lie we told Jackson so I could keep the Holo, and now she's dead because of it."

There's a long silence after I finish. "Do you really think Jackson believed you had secret orders from Coin?" Cressida asks. I don't know how to respond to that. Everyone knows she hates me. "Of course she didn't. But she trusted Boggs, and he clearly wanted you to go on. He gave you that Holo for a reason."

Cressida is just trying to assuage her own guilt. So is Haymitch with his silence. We all lied to her. Jackson's death is on all of us.

"I never even told Boggs what I wanted to do," I say.

"You told everyone in Command!" Gale says, breaking his silence. "It was one of your conditions for being the Mockingjay. 'I kill Snow.'"

"Not if it means I sacrifice other people's lives!" I argue.

"You didn't sacrifice anyone's life. They made that decision on their own," Haymitch inserts.

"But –"

"Don't take that from them, Katniss. Mitchell made a decision. So did Jackson. So did Lyme. Don't take that from them," Haymitch repeats. He's right. I feel foolish.

"There is no reason for us to stop when we are this close. We've infiltrated the enemy camp, showing that the Capitol's defenses can be breached. We've thrown the whole city into chaos trying to find us," Finnick inserts himself into the argument.

"Even if we fail, we are a distraction, which is good for the rebel front," Mac insists. Or Sterling.

"Trust me, Plutarch's thrilled," Cressida adds. Pollux nods in agreement.

"That's because Plutarch doesn't care who dies," I say. "Not as long as his Games are a success."

Peeta sits silently in the corner, pulling at the too short sleeves of Xander's jacket. "What do you think, Peeta?" I finally ask him.

"I think . . . you still have no idea. The effect you can have." He raises his eyes to mine. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They didn't get themselves killed because they believed they had suicide orders. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow. That's the end game. That's what everyone wants. The war to be over. They want their children to be safe." My eyes sting as I think about Boggs's little girl. Boggs didn't sacrifice himself for me. He sacrificed himself for her. "The Mockingjay killing Snow…" Peeta breathes through the trigger word. "That would do it."

I don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can. But if he's right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way. Keep their children safe, even if it means losing my life to do it.

I pull the paper map Peeta sketched from my pocket and spread it out on the floor with new resolve. Cressida, Haymitch, and I all start discussing route options. The Peacekeeper gimmick won't work again, plus, we don't want to be in the wrong colors when the rebels arrive. We pull our hair out, but there doesn't seem to be a clear way to get to the mansion from here, even though City Circle is hardly five blocks away.

We discuss a plot to assassinate the president. Hours go by and we don't get anywhere.

"Even if we could get there, then what?" Haymitch asks, always thinking one step ahead. "The mansion's heavily guarded with video surveillance. How do we get inside?"

From across the room, Gale's voice rises. Cold. Detached. "What we need is to get him out in the open. Then one of us could pick him off," he says, staring at me. I could pick him off.

"Does he ever appear in public anymore?" asks Peeta.

"I don't think so," Cressida answers. "At least in all the recent speeches I've seen, he's been in the mansion. Even before the rebels got here. I imagine he became more vigilant after Finnick aired his crimes."

That's right. It's not just the rebels who hate Snow now, but a web of people who know what he did to their friends and families. And others, like Cressida and Pollux. Like the woman who saved us from the black tar. He won't come out for just anything. It would have to be something near miraculous to lure that snake from its den. Something like…

"I bet he'd come out for me," I say. The bustle of suggestions stop and the room falls silent. "If I were captured. He'd want that as public as possible. He'd want my execution on his front steps." I let this sink in. "Then Gale could shoot him from the audience."

"No!" Peeta shakes his head.

"Peeta," I start, but he won't have it.

"No. There are too many alternative endings to that plan. Snow might decide to keep you and torture information out of you. Or have you executed publicly without being present," Peeta sputters.

"Or he could kill you inside the mansion and display your body out front. You being captured doesn't win us a guarantee at anything other than your death. He has absolutely no reason to keep you alive," Haymitch adds.

"I could…" I start to argue back, but Finnick interrupts.

"No, Katniss. No," he rejects me. I look in his sea green eyes. He's pleading with me. I don't need that right now. I need a calculating mind. I need someone who knows how to set a trap.

"Gale?" I say, turning my eyes toward my best friend.

"It seems like an extreme solution to jump to immediately," he says. "Maybe if all else fails. Let's keep thinking."

"What about me instead?" Peeta offers quietly as my stomach begins to revolt. He tries to raise his voice, but it stays muted in his throat. "What if we let Snow capture me? He has a reason to keep me alive. He'd bring me to his office. Make a propo. Use me as bait to draw Katniss out."

"And then what?" Finnick asks, not pleased with this proposal either.

"Give me the Holo. I'll blow him up."

The words ring in the empty room.

"You mean you'll blow both of you up," Finnick responds.

"It's a means to an end," Peeta replies, morose but certain. "I'm not the Mockingjay, but I think it would end the war if I killed him on live TV. You know he'd put me on air. He wants her. He'd call to Katniss. He knows she'd die for me."

"Peeta," I whisper.

"He's right," Cressida says the words none of us want to say.

"And if they confiscate the Holo?" asks Gale.

"I've got my nightlock pill. You guys come up with a Plan B," Peeta replies. I close my eyes and see him picking through his bloody clothes, refusing to leave the bathroom without a way out of this life. _He can't have me._ And now that's exactly what Peeta is proposing.

"No," I breathe, but it's not audible to anyone but me. The word reverberates in my head. No. No. No. I look desperately at Haymitch, but he shakes his head. With all of his scheming, he has no argument against what Peeta is saying. "No!" I finally manage to get out, but the tide of the room has shifted without me.

"We vote," Peeta says. "Everyone in favor of the plan?" Peeta raises his hand. Cressida. Mac. Sterling. That's only four. Gale finally raises his hand.

"Gale," I whisper, and he meets my gaze with cold gray eyes.

"We all want Snow dead. This is our best shot," he answers.

Haymitch, Finnick, and I are outnumbered. Pollux doesn't vote, he just shakes his head and ties and reties his shoelaces with his restless fingers. It doesn't matter anyway. His vote won't sway anything. I throw the map to the ground and storm across the tiny room.

"Katniss," Peeta reaches for my hand as I walk past him, and I shake it off.

I sit with my back to our group, staring at the wall. Try to make sense of the cement. Don't let my mind wander. After a minute Finnick crosses the space and sits beside me, not touching me. Mirroring my silence, but present.

"Why would he do this?" I exhale.

"Because if he doesn't, you will," Finnick replies, and I know he's right. After everything he's been through, Peeta is still the boy with the bread, always trying to keep me safe. "You two make it very difficult to love you, you know." I just stare at the floor.

In the quiet, we hear Tigris's soft footfall overhead. It must be closing time. She's locking up, fastening the shutters maybe. A few minutes later, the panel at the top of the stairs slides open.

"Come up," says a gravelly voice. "I have some food for you." Whether it's natural or from years of practice, I don't know, but there's something in her manner of speaking that suggests a cat's purr.

We follow Tigris's twitching tail up the stairs, but when we reach ground level we come to a start.

We are not alone.


	10. Chapter 10 - Nationless

We left our weapons in the basement. Stupid. Stupid. We deserve to get killed. We deserve to be ratted out. Surprisingly, though, no one is shooting. No one is calling out to the Peacekeepers inevitably patrolling the streets right outside Tigris's door. I survey the people before us.

Tigris has invited a half dozen Capitolites to her shop. They all seem cozy and not at all shocked to see us. I can't say the same for my crew. I hear Effie in my head. _A lady doesn't gape._ I close my mouth and try to figure out how we are going to kill all these people.

"What is this?" Haymitch asks gruffly. He clearly recognizes some of them, as does Finnick, who seems to be eyeing certain individuals more than others.

"They're here to help," Tigris offers. One of the women steps forward. She's unmistakably affluent.

"It's not just us. There are others. Others in the Capitol that support you," the woman states.

"Then why aren't you part of the rebellion, like Plutarch?" Peeta asks. I watch his face and look back at them for an answer.

"It's not like there was a sign-up sheet. We weren't recruited. But it doesn't change how we feel," the woman responds. I close my eyes for a minute.

The attendant that brought us the hot milk. The bird lady outside the Tribute Center when Peeta and I returned for the Quell. The Capitol citizens rioting in the streets after the interviews.

This time Snow didn't just reap from the Districts. The Capitol considers the Victors theirs. This time he reaped their own.

Everyone has a breaking point.

"We call ourselves the Nationless," a voice raises from the back of the group and the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. I know that voice. He makes his way to the front and my heart beats against my sternum as if seeking escape. My ears ring with the thump. His hair is white. He's thinner now, than the last time I saw him. Frailer. More like his brother. "You aren't the only ones who want to see my brother dead."

My eyes dart desperately to Haymitch but I can tell he has been completely taken by surprise.

We are in the presence of Frater Snow.

"Who is we?" Haymitch says curtly. He's never been easy to trust.

"We've had a small network of upper class citizens working in secret against the President for years now, although since the war reached our soil we've been more brazen about our loyalty," one says.

"Or lack thereof," clicks another.

The Nationless have been quietly sabotaging Snow and his administration for at least a decade. Planting its own in power. Sowing doubt.

"Planting who?" Cressida asks, her tone less incredulous than ours. She's ready to believe this. She herself is a Capitolite who wanted to rebel. What if District 13 had not recruited her? What if she hadn't known the right people? What would she be doing today? Would she be hiding in her home?

No. She'd be rebelling. In her own way, she'd be fighting back.

"Minister Nunn, for starters," a woman with royal purple hair and matching violet eyes brags.

My mind flashes back to that morning in the Capitol. Nunn sitting across the table from us, militaristic posture, hands clad in tight leather gloves. I thought for a moment I saw a flicker of something in her eyes… pity? Compassion?

"Why are you telling us this?" asks Finnick, skepticism dripping from his voice. "Why are you here?"

"We can get Katniss inside the mansion," Snow insists, and I can't pull my stare from him. The resemblance is eerie.

What exactly is the plan?" I ask bluntly. My fingers twitch for a bow.

We have to get to the mansion on our own, we learn. The Nationless doesn't have any kind of network to help us travel the streets.

"But if you can get there, I can get Katniss inside," Snow says.

"How?" Peeta asks.

"By making her invisible," Snow responds. Gale laughs. It's the first sound he's made.

"Right. I knew the Capitol inventions were crazy, but now you can turn her invisible?" he scoffs.

"We aren't physically going to make you invisible," Snow says to me, ignoring Gale completely. "We are going to turn you into someone that no one will see."

I'm there before everyone else.

"An Avox," I breathe. Snow nods. He's right. The people of the Capitol, even the Peacekeepers… no one looks at an Avox. No one will give them the dignity of recognition. An Avox is sub-human.

"Specifically, _my_ Avox," Snow adds. "If you can get to the mansion, I will personally escort you to my brother. No one will give you a second glance, not even him."

"No. No! You'll just turn her in. This is a trap," Gale inserts himself, finally finding his words.

"If I wanted her dead, this place would be filled with Peacekeepers already," Snow responds sharply. "No one in the mansion will even think to question my presence. I'm the president's brother." He pauses, considering our team. Looking at the wary, distrustful eyes staring at him. "The Nationless is not just us."

My ears prick. Who are they working with?

Snow continues. "The Avoxes are with us. They came up with the name The Nationless. They don't have a district, they aren't from the Capitol. We are the financial branch, yes, but they are the driving force of our organization. Without their infiltration in every member of the administration's home, we'd be powerless. They steal intel. They assassinate threats. They communicate so we don't have to. _We've_ never even been in the same room before," he references his colleagues. "Not like this. Katniss," he turns his attention to me. "I know this is an alliance you're reticent to make. I will get you inside. I will get you to the president."

"Why?" I breathe. _Everyone has a story, Katniss._

"Everyone loves someone," Frater Snow answers with darkness in his voice. The president took someone from him. Someone unforgivable. "I will give you tomorrow to plan how you'll get to the mansion. The following morning I will wait for you until noon. I hope to see you there, Miss Everdeen."

He reaches his hand out to me, and the others follow suit. The Capitolites stand in a row, their hands extended toward us, offering a coalition. Our unit watches me intently. I reach out my hand and clasp Snow's. The rest of my team mirrors my action, and so we make a deal with the devil. As they turn to leave, one of the men breaks from the group and takes a step toward Finnick.

"Mr. Odair, I just wanted to apologize for –"

"Don't touch me!" Finnick yells as he recoils back from the man. All eyes dart to the door. Did we give ourselves away? The man moves toward Finnick, his face a mask of regret. In one swift movement I step between them and punch the man so hard in the face I feel his septum crush under the base of my palm. He cries out and blood spurts over his mouth and down his chin.

Finnick looks horrified, but then a laugh escapes his mouth. He clasps his hands over his mouth and giggles through his fingers like a boy.

"Downstairs," I order, and our crew retreats to the basement. A few minutes later Tigris brings down the food she had promised earlier. She offers us some stale hunks of bread, a wedge of moldy cheese, and half a bottle of mustard. It reminds me that even those in the Capitol don't have full stomachs these days. I feel obligated to tell Tigris about our remaining food supplies, but I'm so angry that she brought in traitors without even asking us first, my tongue remains silent. Instead, I scrape the mold off the cheese and divide the food up among us.

"Did you contact Plutarch, Tigris?" Cressida asks as she gnaws on the hard bread.

"No way to," Tigris shrugs. "He'll figure out you're in a safe house, don't worry."

Worry? I feel immensely relieved by the news that I won't be given – and then potentially have to ignore – direct orders from 13. We're on our own now. Aside from Sterling and Mac, we have no one left in our unit from 13. Now if only Tigris kept her mouth shut to everyone else. She leaves and we pass around some cans of food.

"I don't think it's safe to stay here overnight," I start.

"Where would we go?" Cressida asks.

"I have no idea, but our presence here isn't a secret anymore. There's only one way in and out of this cellar, if we get stormed by Peacekeepers we're all dead," I state.

"I think they were being honest with us, Katniss. I think they want you to kill Snow," Finnick says, and then grumbles under his breath, "As much as I don't want to admit it."

We argue. Most of the team is eager to believe them. Haymitch and I seem to be the only true skeptics.

"Look, I'm all for any plan that doesn't involve serving Peeta up to Snow on a platter, but we don't know these people!" I finally burst out.

We agree to stay the night at least. We don't have another option. Everyone sequesters themselves to their fur piles.

Peeta and I lie in the darkness. My mind vacillates back and forth between our two terrible options. I calculate and reset, I try to bury my emotions but I lack objectivity. Eventually I drift off, but wake up screaming with Peeta's hand over my mouth.

"Shhh, I'm right here. Shhh," he breathes, sliding his fingers from my lips and pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I sit up in the darkness. Sterling stares at me, the whites of his eyes visible through the night. The rest of them know better.

"I'm sorry," I pant as I try to catch my breath. I was screaming in my sleep. I could have given away our location. I may have just gotten us all killed.

"No one heard you," Peeta says as he rubs my back. I drop back into our pile of furs, but I don't sleep. I stare up at the ceiling. "Do you want to talk about it?" he whispers, keeping his voice low so only we can hear it.

"No," I say bitterly. I'm sure it's the same nightmare I'll have every night for the rest of my life. Snow has Peeta. Peeta explodes in a fury of flames. I roll away from him, angry, but he curls his body up behind mine. I straighten my legs and inch myself away from him.

"Please don't shut me out, Katniss," he breathes into my hair. "I need you."

My skin flames. I'm angry. I'm frustrated. I'm sad. I'm in love. I don't know what else I am, but I'm drenched in sweat and I feel like I'm suffocating. I pull away and find myself tearing off my layers until I'm in just my tee shirt. I drop back into the pile of fur and close my eyes. Behind me, I feel Peeta shift. I hear Xander's jacket hit the floor with a thud. I feel him hover as he unbuttons the silk shirt and tosses it over me into the pile of clothes. He drops down beside me, curling himself into my back again. He tugs his tee shirt up a little, and pulls up mine as well, until our skin meets. I feel him exhale.

"Don't do it," I beg softly.

"I won't unless I have to," he says. Tears burn in my eyes and I gulp down a sob. This isn't the place. Peeta presses a kiss to my neck and pauses. "What's this?" he says, tugging on the tiny silver chain on my neck. My heart slams inside my chest.

"Nothing," I say quickly, pulling up my collar. He props himself up on an elbow and looks at me.

"What is it, Katniss?" he asks again. I reach behind my neck and unclasp the chain, pulling the necklace from my throat. I roll over and face Peeta in the dark. When his eyes spy the ring, he swallows. I don't have a speech, like he did with the locket. I can't tell him his family needs him. They're dead. Instead, I reach my hands up behind his neck and clasp the necklace around him. The ring pads gently into his chest, a tiny bird's nest entangled in silver branches. All I have is a confession he already knows.

"I need you," I say quietly. Peeta doesn't stop looking at me. "I want you to give that back to me one day," I whisper. He nods, but it's more an acknowledgement than a vow. He won't make a promise he can't keep. I roll away from him and stare at the wall.


	11. Chapter 11 - Survive Without

In the morning we eat and watch the latest Capitol news coverage over an old television set in Tigris's basement. The government has the rebel survivors narrowed down to the eight of us. Huge bounties are offered for information leading to our capture. My mind wanders to the rebel Capitolites we met yesterday. I wonder which one of them might turn us in. Which one of them might betray us. The news coverage focuses on how dangerous we all are, mixing in footage of us exchanging gunfire with the Peacekeepers, the pile of bodies found in the apartment. They do a tragic tribute to the woman Lyme stabbed and stuffed in a closet. Beetee allows the footage to run uninterrupted.

"I wonder if the rebels have made a statement today," I ponder aloud.

"I doubt it. I doubt Coin has any idea what to say now that she knows you're alive," Haymitch states, picking his teeth with his fingernail.

"No one ever knows what to do with you," Finnick adds with a grin.

We try to get down to business. We all stare at each other as we rack our brains for a plan to get to the president's mansion to rendezvous with the Nationless.

"So that's it then? We are going with the plan to meet Frater Snow?" Gale asks.

Everyone nods, even Haymitch and me. Watching Peeta sleep last night, I know he'll sacrifice himself to end this war. He won't need anyone's permission or participation to do it. The only way I stop him is by killing Snow myself, and this is the best plan on the table, even if I don't trust these unsought allies.

The panel at the top of the stairs slides, and I hear Tigris growl down to us, "Coffee."

We each push ourselves to our feet, this time sliding knives and other weapons into our belts. We've learned our lesson. We all mount the stairs and behind me Sterling calls out to Mac, who is still sleeping in a pile of furs against the far wall. Mac doesn't move.

"Come on, man, hot coffee!" Sterling says as he crosses the room to the mound of pelts. "Mac, let's go," he chides, ripping the blankets from his compatriot.

It's obvious Mac is deceased. His jaw hangs open unnaturally, his body is cold. He's been dead hours. Sterling drops the fur and steps backwards away from the body. I bend to my knees and run my hands over the man. There's no blood. My fingers ghost over his neck, his hair. Nothing. I grab the hem of his shirt and yank it from his pants. Mac's torso is distended and black. Just looking at him makes my stomach ache with familiarity. I barely survived the Quell. He must have perforated a vital organ during one of the fights. He's been slowly dying for days.

None of us say anything. Instead, I take the fur and pull it up over his head, covering the morbid mask of death.

"Coffee," I state before ascending the stairs. The rest of the crew follows in silence.

This time Tigris is alone. She leads us to a small kitchen in the back of her shop and sets unmatched coffee mugs on the counter before filling each with the steaming liquid. There is no cream or sugar or milk. The coffee is instant and full of grounds, but I sip it quietly, trying not to think about the corpse in the basement.

"We can't travel together. Everyone will be looking for a group of our size," Finnick offers. I look up, distracted. I hadn't realized they'd started talking. "We need to split up."

We agree to divide into uneven groups. Cressida and Pollux will move ahead of us, acting as guides through the city streets. Haymitch will follow us from behind and cause a distraction if needed. Sterling will head to the roof. We learn he's trained in special reconnaissance.

"I snipe," he says, leaving his coffee untouched on the counter in front of him.

At least for a brief time we will have aerial cover.

We argue over what to do with Finnick. Finnick wants to be in the unit attempting to infiltrate the mansion, which currently consists of me, Gale, and Peeta.

"You won't be able to keep up," Gale asserts, staring at Finnick's wounded leg.

"You have no idea what I am capable of, kid," Finnick responds as he inches closer to Gale. In an instant he transforms from the smiling, foolish boy to the Career killer we all know him to be. Gale kicks back the stool he's sitting on and meets Finnick.

"I think you're capable of getting Katniss killed," Gale says evenly, his slate gray eyes locked with Finnick's ocean green.

"Finnick comes," I state, dismissing any argument, though not diffusing the building tension that percolates between them. Gale's protectiveness is in overdrive after losing Johanna, but Finnick is a victor. He knows his limits. It's a part of war Gale has yet to face, but we've all been there. Haymitch had to hold his intestines in his stomach with his bare hands during his Quell. We know. You do what you have to do to survive.

Gale stops arguing. We toss ideas around, but no one has any clue how we can travel the five blocks needed to reach the mansion. Finally we just decide we do our best on the streets. Based on the news reports, the rebel forces should breech City Circle by morning. At that point hopefully there is enough chaos to draw attention away from us. Tigris leaves to surveil the roads. We stare at each other, knowing our safest bet is to retreat back to the cellar, but now it feels more like a tomb than a refuge.

Tigris doesn't return for hours, and when she does her information isn't useful. Reports have poured in about a boy beaten to death by a crowd of fearful Capitolites that mistook him for Peeta. They show a picture on TV. He looks nothing like Peeta, except for maybe his blonde curls. Peeta tugs the knit cap tighter on his head and stares at the floor.

We each retreat to our separate cocoons and try not to think about the lifeless man against the wall. Today was unproductive, but at least we can attack tomorrow with clear minds. I wrap my arms around Peeta's waist and let the quiet of the night lull me to sleep. When I hear Peeta whisper, I keep my eyes closed. It's not meant for me.

"I don't trust them," Peeta says, his voice low.

"I don't either," Gale replies. "But if they wanted us dead, we'd be dead by now. They don't need to lure us out of here. We're like fish in a barrel in this cellar."

"Is that why you woke up?" Peeta asks.

"I wake up ten times a night anyway," Gale answers.

"To make sure Katniss is still here?" asks Peeta.

"Something like that," Gale admits. There's a long pause before Peeta speaks again.

"That was funny, what Finnick said. About no one knowing what to do with her."

"Well, we never have," Gale says. They both laugh. It's so strange to hear them talking like this. Almost like friends. Which they're not. Never have been. Although they're not exactly enemies.

"She loves you, you know," says Peeta. "In her own way. She always has." Gale's silent. I imagine him brooding, staring at a wall. He's utterly damaged. Peeta can feel it. "Johanna was probably my best friend," Peeta says. I hear Gale stop breathing. "After the dungeons… no one understood. She was the only person I trusted for a long time. She didn't look at me like I was broken. Jo was the only one who didn't look at me like I was broken." They're both quiet for a while until Gale finally clears his throat. I can just catch his words through the layer of fur.

"I'm not sure I ever convinced Johanna that I loved her," Gale confesses.

"Did you?" Peeta asks earnestly. "Did you love her?" He must nod, because Peeta asks, "Did she love you?"

Gale pauses for a moment. "She once said I was the only person she couldn't survive without."

I feel Peeta's eyes drop to me. I keep my breath even. "I know what that means." They're both in love with cryptic women. Guarded women with walls. Women that don't talk. They're quiet again. "Gale –"

"Go to sleep, Peet," Gale says, rolling away from him and covering himself with the furs.

Peeta's body drops down beside mine. His arms wrap around my waist and he squeezes me tight. I feel his hand reach for his neck and he runs the silver chain through his fingers. He finally lets out a shaky breath and goes to sleep.

Tomorrow we leave this place. Tomorrow we try to make a choice. We try to choose what's right.


	12. Chapter 12 - Hiding in Plain Sight

We are all jolted awake by the sound of a siren waling in the street. Even though it's somewhat muted in the basement, the screech is still alarmingly loud. We grab our weapons and cover our ears with our hands before flooding upstairs. When we open the sliding panel, our faces cringe at the scream.

"What is it?" Haymitch yells to Tigris, trying to raise his voice over the din, but he's barely audible above the noise.

"They are evacuating the block! It will stop in a minute!" Tigris roars back, and no sooner are the words free from her feline mouth than the drill stops. The television beeps loudly a few times and flashes on.

"Attention Capitol citizens. Zone A is undergoing a mandatory evacuation," a grim-faced reporter announces, listing the streets to be vacated. Residents are to leave the area within the hour.

"Well this certainly moves up our timetable," Haymitch states, peeking onto the still dark streets through a tiny slit in the window shutters. It's a bizarre spectacle. Refugees from the now rebel-occupied blocks are streaming toward the Capitol's center. The most panicked are wearing nothing but nightgowns and slippers, while the more prepared are heavily bundled in layers of clothes. They carry everything from tiny dogs to cooking utensils to remote controls for their televisions. One man in a fluffy robe holds only an overripe banana. Confused, sleepy children stumble along after their parents, most either too stunned or too baffled to cry.

"We could slip into the crowd. They're out of it," Cressida suggests. The news continues to blare in the background. The Capitol is blatant in their reporting of rebel progress. I pull out my paper map and mark the streets they've conveyed as lost. The rebels are close. Very close. All Capitol citizens in non-evacuated zones are to open their doors to refugees. Even the presidential palace is being offered for safety.

"That's our in," I state. Maybe we don't need the Nationless after all. Maybe we can march in with a crowd of exiles.

"We need to move. Peacekeepers will be sweeping the area to make sure no one ignores the evacuation order," Finnick states. We head to the cellar and load on our military gear – kevlar, weapons, hoods. We eat the mishmash of our remaining food — canned peaches, crackers, and snails — leaving one can of salmon for Tigris as meager gesture of gratitude for all she's done.

The token seems to touch her in some way. Her face contorts in an odd expression and she flies into action. Tigris spends the next half an hour remaking the surviving members of our unit. She dresses us in regular clothes to hide our uniforms, and then drapes us with winter coats and cloaks. There is no lack of pelts, and she covers our military boots in furry slippers. She paints our faces hastily, doing in a moment what would take me hours and a steady hand. She gives us useless things to carry – knickknacks, umbrellas. When she's finished, we look nothing like rebels. We look like helpless.

"Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist," says Peeta. It's hard to tell, but I think Tigris might actually blush under her stripes. Everyone piles up the stairs, but I delay in the cellar. I tug Peeta's hand and he pauses on the bottom step when he realizes I'm not immediately behind him. He steps back onto the floor and finds my eyes in the dim light.

"I just –" I start, but he pulls me into his arms. We stand there silently, just for a few seconds. But it's a few seconds of us. It's knowing the shape of him. Knowing where my fingers will meet on the other side of his body. Knowing where my head fits under his chin. It's knowing him. He closes his eyes and tries to quiet his mind. The siren set his anxiety ablaze. It wasn't a trigger, but it was enough to make his thoughts shiny. We climb the stairs and meet the others.

Our crew stands huddled together. I should say something, but I've never been the wordsmith. That was always Peeta, and right now his sentences are garbled as he focuses on staying here. There are no more helpful updates on the television, so we shut it off. I stare at Haymitch. We're separating. This might be it for us.

"Listen," I say. "Don't do anything foolish."

"No. It's last-resort stuff. Completely," he replies. We're quiet for a minute before he awkwardly wraps me in his arms. "I'll never be good at saying goodbye to you, sweetheart." We've only hugged once before, on the eve of the Quell. This time I let myself hug him back. Peeta wraps his arms around both of us, and then Finnick grins wickedly and throws himself around our whole group. He sways and knocks us off balance. It feels weird to laugh. Out of place. Uninvited. But it's almost a tribute to who we were before the war, before our Games. A tribute to who we hope we can be again.

I hug Cressida too. Pollux. I hug Gale. I even hug Sterling, who is almost as uncomfortable as I am. When I turn to Peeta, I feel a kind of desperation rising up in me. I wrap my arms around his neck, feel his arms hesitate before they embrace me. Not as steady as they once were, but still warm and strong. A thousand moments surge through me - all the times these arms were my only refuge from the world.

"If we get separated," I whisper in his ear, "Meet me at home, okay?" He nods.

 _Home_. The whole idea of it feels so ridiculous, so unattainable here in this moment. Tigris watches through the shutters for the right moment, unbolts the door, and nods to Cressida and Pollux.

"Take care," Cressida says, and they are gone. We'll be following in a minute. I fasten my red hooded cloak, pull my scarf up over my nose, and follow Gale out into the frigid air with Peeta and Finnick immediately behind me.

The cellar was chilly, yes, but the bitterness of the frigid air takes my breath away. Winter has descended upon the city. The sun tries to break through the gloomy dawn, but it doesn't have much success. Many of the streetlights are shattered, rainbow glass scattered on the tiled streets. The conditions are perfect for going unnoticed, except I can't locate Cressida and Pollux. Less than a minute into our mission, things already aren't going according to plan. I ignore the creeping feeling in my gut telling me that something isn't right.

Emerged in the throng, I can hear what I missed peeking through the shutters with Haymitch. The refugees are crying. Moaning. Some can barely catch their breath – from fear or exertion I don't know. Probably both. I hear children asking their parents questions that hang unanswered in the air. They don't know what to say.

"Stay to the right!" a voice barks. Ahead, a group of Peacekeepers have dispersed themselves through the crowd, directing the flow of human traffic. Terrified faces press to the glass of shop windows, staring out into the crowd. A gleam of sun breaks through, and along with it a spurt of snow begins to spit from the sky. Gale nods his head and I see he's finally spotted Cressida and Pollux. I crane my neck backwards to see if I can spot Haymitch and find myself face-to-face with an inquisitive little girl in a lemon yellow coat. She stares at me with doe eyes as she leans her cheek on her mother's shoulder. I whip my head forward, quickening my pace. Finnick notices my shift and pulls in close.

"What's wrong?" he whispers.

"There's a girl… I think we may need to split up," I say under my breath, but his eyes tear away from my face and toward the roof. Gunfire rips through the square. There's nowhere to hide, nowhere to take cover. Finnick grabs my waist and pulls me into him, obscuring me with his body, his back bare toward the shots. The only thing between me and bullets is my friend.

"Finnick!" I cry out, but his gloved hand covers my mouth.

"Don't say my name," he whispers in my ear, his cheek pressed against mine in our mass of furs. I look onto the street. It's chaos. I can't see where the gunfire is coming from, who is shooting at who, but ahead of me on the ground I see the lemon yellow girl, her hands covered with blood. She shakes her lifeless mother, sobbing and vulnerable in the street. I struggle against Finnick, reaching for her, but he squeezes me tight. "No, Katniss. No. You can't help her," he hisses, sliding his hand up to cover my skull.

"This way!" I hear Peeta shout, we push to our feet and follow his voice. I see him run forward, scoop the little girl into his arms, and take off sprinting toward a storefront with a ceramic awning. Gale grabs my arm and we chase after him, fleeing the rain of bullets peppering the street. Out of the corner of my eye I see Peacekeepers shooting toward the rooftops. The rebels are in the square.

Peeta reaches the storefront and wiggles the handle, but the shop is locked up. The tiny girl screams and thrashes in his arms, and I see his jaw set, his eyes go cold. He raises his mechanically-enhanced leg and kicks the door handle, which breaks off and hangs from its former home like the loose tooth a nervous child refuses to pull, clinging to their gums by a thread of flesh.

Inside refugees shriek as we flood into the shop. They know who we are. They fear for their lives.

"Take her," Peeta orders, shoving the trembling child into the arms of a man with a silver beard, which has been combed into a long corkscrew that nearly reaches his navel.

I peer out the window and watch a few rounds. I bear witness as white Peacekeepers collapse into the dirty snow, crimson leaking into puddles around them.

"The rebels are trying to take out the Peacekeepers," I call back. They aren't exactly crack shots. The bodies of refugees litter the streets, outnumbering the soldiers wounded and dead.

"We can't join the fight. If we start shooting, that's it," Gale states. "The whole world will know it's us."

It's true. I can't send an arrow flying into the crowd. I might as well wave a flag and scream _Here I am! Come get me!_ "No," I say forcefully. "We need to get to Snow."

"Then we better start moving before the whole block goes up," Finnick orders, and we pull our hoods back over our heads.

"Katniss?" a voice chirps from behind me, and I turn around to find a small Capitolite woman tucked behind a counter. She's barely taller than a child. I meet her eyes. "We believe in you." She puts her fingers to her lips and raises her arm in the air, like she's seen the districts do on TV. She doesn't know exactly what it means, but she knows she's saying goodbye. The man with the silver beard raises his hand as well, as do the dozen or so others huddling and hiding from the fight.

"Thank you," I whisper. We are not alone.

I raise my hand in return.

And then I slip back out into the fray.


	13. Chapter 13 - Move

The four of us duck back onto the street, hugging the wall as we try to progress forward toward the president's mansion. The wall concrete quickly ends, though, and soon I'm walking along shop windows. A pattern of sweaty palms and wide, terrified eyes press against the glass. I pull my scarf up higher on my cheekbones. Peeta keeps his head trained down, tugging at the cap concealing his distinguishing head of flaxen hair.

Behind a rack of framed photos of Snow we find an injured Peacekeeper. He's bleeding from his leg. I'm not sure if it's a bullet, or shrapnel, but when the word "help" slips his lips, I pause. My eyes drop to his wound, but out of my periphery I see Gale pick up a rock and slam it into the man's temple. He crumples down, slouching like he's asleep. Gale takes his gun and cocks the weapon. At the next intersection, he shoots two Peacekeepers and hands the guns to Finnick and Peeta.

"Who are we supposed to be now?" I ask, pulling the only gun we had with us from under my cloak. There's hardly any ammo in it. We had others, but Sterling took a few and we gave one to Haymitch.

"Desperate citizens of the Capitol," Gale replies. "The Peacekeepers will think we are on their side, and hopefully the rebels have better targets." I'm not sure anyone will buy that. We walk by another fallen soldier and I rip the weapon from his stiff hands, dropping my almost-empty weapon to the ground.

By the time we reach the next intersection, though, it is obvious it no longer matters who we are. No one is looking at faces. The rebels have flooded the block. They bark commands at one another with hoarse, gritty voices. Pending down on them is a large squadron of Peacekeepers. Reserves. Their white uniforms glisten in the winter sun as they persist forward. Caught between the two opposing forces are the refugees – women, children, men, elderly. Citizens. Innocents. They cry and dart in no direction at all, disoriented, caught in the crossfire. Many of them are wounded but keep moving.

There is a large screeching sound and suddenly a gush of steam is released from underground, spilling through sewer grates. Everyone caught in its path is parboiled. Victims are left intestine-pink and very dead.

"He's activated the pods!" I cry back to my team, and whatever sense of order was in the square before completely collapses into chaos. Snow's activated the pods. He doesn't care who he loses as long as he slows the rebel progress. _Slows_ the progress. He knows the impending inevitability of this siege. The Capitol will fall. He's buying time so he can… what?

Escape.

"We need to move!" I bark. While the steam is no longer deadly, it consumes the square. I can barely see a few inches in front of my weapon. I feel a hand slide on my lower back and see Peeta step beside me. I raise my gun and we try to move forward. Everything that moves is a target. People shoot reflexively, and I'm no exception. Bullets fly indiscriminately through the air. My heart pounds in my chest. Peacekeeper, rebel, citizen, who knows? Everyone in this square is an enemy. Everyone but the men flanked around me.

There is nothing to do but move forward. We shoot at anyone in our path. Screaming people, bleeding people, dead people litter the streets. My pulse pounds in my ears. People fall in front of me and I leap over their bodies. I hear the zip of a bullet as it flies inches from my head.

"Someone knows who she is!" Finnick yells out, and before I know what's happening I am slammed to the ground. Finnick's body presses on mine as I hear gunfire pepper upward. Gale and Peeta shoot toward a Peacekeeper firing from a weapon mounted on one of the rooftops. Suddenly I feel heat. Everything about me is cold and frozen, but pulsating into me is something hot and wet.

"Finnick?" I whisper.

"Yeah?" he responds through gritted teeth.

"Are you okay?" I ask. He nods his head. Peeta comes forward and pulls us up.

"Are you shot?" Peeta looks at me, desperately running his hands over my blood-soaked clothes. Finnick stands and then quickly drops to his knees.

Finnick groans and pushes himself back to his feet. We round the corner and the entire block ahead of us lights up in a rich purple glow. We backpedal and hunker down in a stairwell. Finnick drops hard. I squint into the light. Something's happening to the people in the square. What is assaulting them? A sound? A wave? A laser? Weapons drop to the ground. Fingers clench faces as blood spews from every visible orifice – eyes, ears, noses, mouths. In less than a minute, at least two dozen people are dead. I pull myself back inside the stairwell.

Finnick looks white.

"Where were you shot?" I whisper. Peeta helps me survey Finnick while Gale keeps his gun trained toward the street.

"You tell Annie I love her," Finnick gargles, tugging at my shirt. My pulse hammers in my throat. I can't swallow.

"Shut up," I reply, pulling the fabric away from his chest and exposing a wound in the base of his neck. Blood pulses from the hole, dripping under his jacket until its soaked through.

"Peet," he breathes, turning his attention away from me. "Promise."

Peeta locks his blue eyes onto Finnick's. "You don't say goodbye. It means you are giving up. Annie never once said goodbye to you in her cell. Not once."

I can see the bullet. It's embedded in the base of Finnick's neck, but barely. Clearly the layers and layers of fur provided more than just a costume. I don't know if I should pull it out or leave it in. I bite the inside of my cheek. It's not in a place where it might have hit any organs, but I have no idea where blood vessels are. Finnick is fading and if I have any chance at saving him, I need to close this wound and stop the bleeding.

"I'm taking it out," I announce with confidence, hoping to convince not only me but everyone else, too. Behind us, an explosion rattles the street and broken bits of stone crumble down toward us. "What did Tigris leave us?" I ask. Peeta rips through his pockets. A tiny first aid kit, not much to it, but there is a needle and thread. No plyers. "Fingers it is," I mutter, stringing the needle. I look at Finnick, he just nods and looks away.

I try to grab the end of the bullet, but it's slippery and soaked with blood. After fruitlessly pulling at it to no avail, I grab a hunk of Finnick's flesh and try to squeeze it out like a splinter. He screams and Peeta muffles his voice with a cloak. Not like it matters. Everyone is screaming everywhere. The metal butt of the bullet starts protruding from his skin, but my fingers won't hold.

"This is going to be gross," I state, and before anyone can stop me I drop my mouth to his wound and grab the bullet with my teeth. It's hot, so hot, and thick. The blood tastes metallic and I try to resist the urge to gag until I've finally anchored the hunk of copper. I pull back and the bullet comes with me. It's larger than I'd thought, and when I spit it on the ground I realize it was embedded a couple inches in. The wound is deep, but at least it's not gaping. I grab the needle and thread and stitch up the hole while Finnick tries not to squirm underneath me. The blood stops gushing and Finnick fixes his eyes on me.

"You look horrible," he laughs, reaching up and wiping my face gently with his sleeve. If the propaganda is to be believed, I am the nightmare of the Capitol. Cannibalistic, barbaric, merciless. I certainly look the part with my lips stained with blood. But in the middle of a battlefield, Finnick finds it in him to be gentle.

"We need to move," Gale calls back. Finnick pulls himself up. He's unsteady on his feet, but he can walk. We duck back into the warzone.

The entire square is dead – Peacekeeper and citizen alike. I grit my teeth and run, leaping over bodies, feet slipping in gore. Over the sound of sobs and bullets, we hear an army's worth of boots pounding toward us.

"Get down!" I hiss and we all drop. I land face first in a still-warm pool of someone's blood, but I play dead. The boots march over us, some more respectful of the dead, others' feet grinding into my hands, back, head. They move on, and we're on our knees then sprinting. We cover a block, maybe less. Finnick follows, waving me forward every time I crane my neck to see him. We glimpse less soldiers now, this area is filled mostly with frightened refugees. Just when it seems like we might have caught a break, the sky fills with the sound of a loud crack and for a minute I'm back in 12 with Gale tied to a post. My eyes flit desperately until I lock onto his back. _He's here with me. He's here with me._

We all come to a halt and start looking around for danger. Where is the pod? There's nothing. Then I feel the tips of my toes begin to tilt ever so slightly.

"Run!" I cry out to the others. There is no time to explain. I sprint toward the sidewalk and they follow. A seam opens in the center of the block and the nature of the pod becomes immediately clear. The two sides of the street begin to fold down beneath us. The tile is slippery with blood and ice and my feet do little to gain traction. The pitch drops dramatically and I feel myself start to slide. I watch as people topple past me, hurdling into the dark pit below. Screams of horror echo from below as my feet slip out from beneath me. The flaps give way and there's nothing to do in that last moment but leap forward and grab for the sidewalk.

For a moment I'm hanging in mid air like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze, but seconds later I slam into the icy walkway. My fingers claw as I reach to grasp something, anything while my feet dangle below me. The cavern underneath is easily fifty feet deep and a vile stench creeps up and invades my nostrils. I cough and try to spit the poison from my mouth. It smells like death, like rotting corpses bloated in the summer heat, like someone who has been forgotten and left behind. Black shapeless forms crawl below, hungry for those who survive the fall.

I'm losing my grip on the frozen ledge. I try to scream out but there's no one to help me and no voice in my throat. I look to my side and see I'm only six or seven feet from the shell of the pod trigger. I start to inch toward it, trying to block the sounds of torture from below. As I loosen my grip to slide my hand, my weight feels heavier and heavier. While I once had my entire fingers over the ledge, now I cling by just the tips, which lost feeling long ago. When I reach the pod I nearly cry out in relief, wrapping my arms around it and swinging a leg up and over. I use every bit of might in my body to drag myself to street level, and when I finally reach the sidewalk I'm on my knees, panting and heaving. _Peeta. Finnick. Gale._

My eyes dart urgently around the street. I spot Peeta clinging to the edge of the sidewalk nearly fifteen feet from where I started. I bolt down the street and drop to my knees in front of him.

"Hey," I manage, clinging at his hands with mine.

"Hey," he grunts. Why isn't he pulling himself up? I look past him and realize he's anchored. Gale is clinging to his legs.

"I'm just going to let go," Gale shouts up. "Otherwise I'll take us both down." Peeta's face is bright red with exertion.

"You drop, I drop," Peeta threatens, knowing it's the only way he'll convince Gale to hang on. Peeta throws his eyes back up to me. They are so pale in this cold morning light it reminds me of mist over the morning lake. "I need you," he starts, but his fingers slip and he loses his words as he tries to regain his hold on the world. "I need you to pull him up," Peeta groans, his chest heaving. "Okay?"

"Okay," I confirm, nodding my head.

"Gale, on the count of three, I need you to grab my hand," Peeta calls down.

"That's suicide," Gale yells back.

"Move over to my fake leg," Peeta calls back, ignoring Gale's protests. Gale nods and pulls his body over until he's only on Peeta's left. Peeta brings his eyes back up to me. "I love you," he whispers.

"Don't say that," I spit out. I hear his words to Finnick just minutes ago. He doesn't think this is going to work. He thinks they are both going down. I'm useless. I'm useless here on the ledge. I'm about to lose them both. "We can think of something else. Something where you keep both hands up here. Maybe Gale can climb," I ramble, but he cuts me off.

"We don't have time," Peeta answers. "Ready?" he shouts down to Gale. Peeta lets out a guttural scream as he lifts his leg into the air, closing the gap between Gale and his hand. He lets his fingers slip from the ledge and his arm drops to Gale, stretching like a tiny child trying to reach a treat high in the cupboard. "Grab my hand!" he screams, and Gale's stone gray eyes lock on Peeta's hand before he reaches out and grabs it. Peeta's body swings precariously sideways as he takes the weight of both men on his one hand. I lie on my stomach and reach out for Gale. There's a sudden jerk and Peeta loses his grip momentarily, sending Gale swinging along the rock wall. Peeta's eyes abruptly flash as he reaches his leg up and slams his heel into the concrete in front of him. The two of them shake.

"What are you doing?" I cry out, and I watch as he slams his foot again. This time, a blade shoots from the toe of his mechanical foot. I remember seeing this, Beetee showing us. Peeta throws his body forward with all his might and the blade sticks into the cement, offering him a step. Pushing on his fake leg, he heaves upward and flings Gale up. Gale's shoulders land on the ledge and I cling to his clothes as I yank him street-level.

Peeta heaves himself up over the edge and remains on his stomach, panting. His arms quiver at his side.

"Where's Finnick?" I ask, scanning the area. When I don't immediately see him, my heart starts slamming in my chest. I scream his name into the black abyss below, no longer caring who hears me, no longer caring if I'm recognized or not.

"Over here!" I look in bewilderment to my left. When the flaps dropped, the buildings lining the streets started leaning precariously forward. Doors and walls hang over the street like a drunkard leaning sideways as he walks. A dozen or so people cling to whatever they can wrap their hands around – doorknobs, knockers, planters, mailboxes. Three doors down from us, Finnick clings to a decorative iron gate that surrounds a tiny garden in front of a dooryard. Normally he'd just throw himself onto the sidewalk, but with a bullet wound in his neck and the Mutt injuries to his leg, he can't seem to manage it. It's only when a flood of white armored soldiers engulf the sqaure that Finnick reacts. With adrenaline slamming through his veins, Finnick pulls himself onto the street. He reaches under his cloak and grabs his trident. Pretenses are gone. He is Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games, and he's here with vengeance in his heart.

The Peacekeepers recognize him immediately and descend. Finnick throws his trident forward, landing it squarely in the chest of the nearest threat. He launches the man up and over the ledge, tumbling toward the pit of shadowy terrors below. The others train their sights on Finnick, ignoring us completely.

I reach under my cloak for my bow when Gale grabs my elbow. "We have to go," he orders, pulling me away from the troops. Finnick knows what he's doing. He's made a choice. He chose me.

"No!" I fight back, shoving Gale away from me. I look over my shoulder. Three or four bodies litter the street, but Finnick is massively outnumbered. A van pulls up and at least a dozen more Peacekeepers flood into the street, guns locked on Finnick. I hear a pop and Finnick falls to the ground. For a split second I lose sight of him, then he's heaved over the heads of the men and loaded into the truck. I scream lodges itself in my throat.

The back of the van slams shut, obscuring my friend from me.

It barrels down the street, sirens wailing.

Precious cargo, either dead already or bleeding out on the floor of the van.

With that, Finnick Odair is gone.


	14. Chapter 14 - Blind Spot

"No no no no no," I panic as I throw myself toward the speeding vehicle, but Gale wraps his arms around my waist and holds me back. I watch as the white vehicle disappears in the spitting white snow and white sky. And so vanishes another person putting me before them. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

What will they do to Finnick? Torture him? Kill him? Hijack him? I can't breathe. The cracks begin opening inside me, threatening to break me into pieces. I only have one way to save Finnick. If the Capitol falls they will lay down their arms and surrender their prisoners. But that won't happen while Snow lives.

I look around the square and find refugees and rebels alike, bleeding and dead in the ice. Blood on snow. Red on white. My eyes blur with rage.

I clench my jaw with resolve. They can't have him.

"Katniss, we have to go," Peeta's voice pierces the fog in my head. I look up at him. I'm lost in the fury. "Come on, Kat," he whispers, grabbing my hand. Before I know what I'm doing, we run. "They knew that was Finnick," I call out as we sprint. "Find cover!"

Peeta, Gale and I duck into a doorway, huddled together. A pair of Peacekeepers runs by, barely glancing at the shivering refugees in the doorway.

"Can you change your appearance at all?" I ask as I pull my cloak off, turning it inside out and letting the black lining show instead of the red exterior. They saw who Finnick was with. They'll be looking for us. I readjust my hood so it better obscures my face. The men pull and tug at their clothes while I clutch my gun to my chest and survey the block. There's only a handful of survivors still mulling ahead. Around the corner is City Circle. I lean forward more and glance at the Circle. It's full of people milling around, wailing, or just sitting and letting the snow pile up around them. Peacekeepers herd them into order like cattle. Across the wide expanse ringed by grand buildings sits the president's mansion.

I pull back forward and close my eyes for a minute. I need to focus, but I can feel my jaw chattering in fear and cold. Peeta stands up and tugs the mittens from his hands before he slides his bare fingers into my hair. There is no warmth in our skin, no heat in this touch. I breathe until my chest settles. He just runs his thumb idly along my cheekbone.

The war isn't over.

I open my eyes and focus on my fellow victor. My ally. Lover. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Friend. There's a whole list of words we've used trying to figure out who we are to one another. But here on the street, I know above all things what Peeta is.

He is the boy with the bread. He always has been, and despite everything Snow has put him through, he always will be.

I will end this. I will end this bloodshed, this loss.

"We need to meet Frater. There's no way we won't be seen if we try to go in with the refugees," I state firmly. "There are too many Peacekeepers."

"I don't like it," Gale answers, but I ignore him. We don't have time for a discussion. "Peeta do you have the map?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says quietly before his eyes break from mine and he digs into his pocket. Peeta pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and smooths it against his leg. He and Pollux worked on this for hours. Peeta knows his way around parts of the mansion, and Pollux knows about servant access at almost every Capitol building. We need to wrap around the gates and find the west entrance.

"What did you see in the Circle?" Peeta asks.

"There's a concrete barricade toward the center. Both sides look almost abandoned. All the action is right in the main Circle. I think if we can skirt the edges we can reach the gate," I tell them.

"Okay, we're following you," Peeta answers, and we rise to our feet, arm our guns, and move to the street. The pulse of refugees is pushing toward the barricade. We slip along the edges, keeping our heads down. Gale trails a dozen feet behind us. The Peacekeepers know they are looking for a group of three. I slip behind a crowd of old men. No one will be looking for the Mockingjay among them. I think the cover will carry me most of the way when my foot catches something and I crash down hard, slamming my wrists into the ice-covered pavement. I look back and realize my boot is tangled in a frozen limb – the arm of what must have been a young woman. The turquoise fingernail polish shines next to the dirty snow. The men pull away toward the barricade and I'm left with bruised knees. I scramble to my feet and speed away from the severed appendage that will surely haunt many nights to come. If I live long enough for haunted nights.

Peeta grabs my elbow and pulls me forward. We keep a remarkable pace. Unlike everywhere we've travelled since leaving Tigris's den, there's no one over here. To our left is a backdrop of chaos and violence. It's what they are running from, not toward. To our right, refugees push toward the barricade, toward the protection it offers. When we reach the west gate, though, it's abandoned. The fence surrounding the mansion is impenetrable. I look around frantically, but Frater Snow is nowhere to be found. I start to panic slightly, tugging my cloak up over my nose, trying to devise a plan to breach the mansion. I look up and see the security cameras hanging limply from broken cords. This is a blind spot. This is why we were supposed to meet here.

I stare up the fence. Going over is not an option. The gate is at least thirty feet high with razor-sharp wire running its length. Not very stylish. Must be a new wartime accessory. I tap at the base with my feet. The iron meets the concrete ground. There is no going under. I kick the fence in frustration, growling like a stubborn child.

"Your brutishness is dependable, if not unbecoming," I hear the voice slither into my ears. He even sounds like him. I turn around and find Frater Snow surrounded by a posse of what I assume are members of the Nationless. Maybe servants. I don't know.

"Took you long enough," I spit back.

From his waistband he slips a ring dangling with silver keys, each bouncing and clinking off each other like a cacophonous wind chime. "Archaic yes, but your little friend… Beetee is it? He can't hack an iron lock," Frater answers, carefully selecting the appropriate key before sliding it into the deadlock. The gate protests with a loud groan, but finally slides open. The three of us begin to follow him inside, when Frater raises his hand and it smacks Gale firmly in the chest.

"You need to wait out here," Frater states firmly in the tone of a man that is not used to being questioned. I wonder what happened to the demure persona we met in the bakery. I wonder which was the real him. Is putting on this strong front to prepare himself for what is to come? Is this to steel his nerves before he kills his brother?

"I go where she goes," Gale answers, and my mind flits back to the two of us standing in front of Coin. Me demanding Gale as part of the Mockingjay deal.

"I have one Avox. I never said I'd get you all inside. I said I could get _her_ inside. And if you want her to have any chance of making it back out, the two of you need to hold her escape route," Frater orders. He may be frail, with alabaster skin that shows years of wear, but he has a power that runs decisively through him.

"What about you?" I ask defiantly.

"I never intended on surviving this, Miss Everdeen," he says resolutely. There's no pity in his voice. "You will stay out here, Mister Hawthorne," Frater orders, returning his attention to Gale. "Keep her exit clear." Frater turns and faces Peeta. "You follow me. I have a job for you."

Frater hauls open the door to the servant's entrance. His company plants themselves along the wall next to Gale. The only way we survive this is if these ten men hold the exit with no cover or strategic advantage. I expect if I make it back, I'll find their blood spattering the walls, their bodies slumped upon each other like a ragdoll discarded under a bed.

My eyes meet Gale. We don't have anything to say. We've said goodbye. He just nods, and I slip inside the mansion.


	15. Chapter 15 - One Last Time

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the blinding white light of winter to the dim corridors of the servant quarters inside the presidential mansion. Frater Snow walks a few steps in front of me, his pace slow but deliberate. I look over my shoulder and see Peeta staring at the paint, not sure if he remembers this place, if he knows where he is.

The Avoxes and other servants part and plaster themselves to the walls to make room for us. The end of the hallway opens up to a large kitchen area. This isn't where the president's food is prepared. This is home. This is where the workers of this palace cook and sit and eat and be themselves. A deck of playing cards is stacked neatly in a corner. From the knobs on the wall hang aprons, cloaks, and cummerbunds… all semblances of some servant role or another. Scattered among them is the distinctive crimson red worn by every domestic Avox.

At the far end of the room is gathered a large group of domestics. I realize I'm holding my breath and let go, and it's as if the whole room exhales at once.

"We have less than an hour to remake the Mockingjay. Where is she?" Frater addresses the group.

"Where is who?" I ask.

"My Avox," he replies. The way he says _my_ makes my stomach churn. It's not the way I use it – my sister, my friend. He pronounces it possessively, the way one might say _my_ horse or _my_ money.

With a sweeping motion a woman in red enters the room, her head bent. She's dressed the way every Avox does – in shapeless, scarlet clothes with her hair pulled back and slicked against her head. Her eyebrows are painted red and from a tight knot of hair on the back of her head protrudes a sharp, pointed headpiece. It reminds us she is unapproachable. Her hands lock in front of her – a submissive position held by each Avox until they are beckoned.

One might consider a domestic Avox lucky. Their life is mundane and not their own, but it is not the life of the Avoxes in the sewer. It is not the life of the Avoxes in the hospitals, having new drugs or procedures tested on them. It is not the life of the Avoxes in the prisons, tortured and mute and alone. It is not the life of the Avoxes in the Capitol brothels, sold and resold.

I don't consider any of them lucky. In the end they are all slaves to Snow. They don't have lovers or children. Most are sterilized. They can't sing. They can't whisper goodnight. That was taken from them. All of them.

As my eyes run over her face a startling realization hits me, and I'm not sure if I should be triumphant or cry out in agony. I know this Avox.

"Portia?" I hear Peeta's voice behind me, floating across the room to his stylist. She raises her head and smiles faintly, her jaw slightly slack. Her face looks different. "Portia!" he cries out and sprints across the kitchen, sweeping her into his arms. Peeta squeezes Portia so tight her feet leave the floor, her toes grazing the tile as he refuses to let her go. She reaches her arms up and wraps them around his neck. "You were dead! They showed me the execution on TV! Everyone said that was real!" Peeta's eyes dart to me, unsure and doubtful. "You said that was real," he whispers, shiny realities crashing around him. He doesn't mean to sound accusatory, but guilt percolates in my gut. What is real?

"It was…" I stammer. I thought it was. My throat fills with bile and I swallow hard. My stomach flutters in an unhappy excitement. I have words, but I can't find them. I look to Portia. "Cinna?" I ask softly. He's dead. I know he's dead. But when she shakes her head and confirms it, I feel like I'm losing him all over again. I feel like he's immediately in front of me, bleeding from his wounds.

Peeta is still clinging protectively to Portia when Frater begins to explain. Portia was turned into an Avox during her interrogation, once they realized she wouldn't reveal anything about the rebellion. Snow ordered a public execution when the Nationless intervened. Portia was one of their own now – abandoned by the rebellion but hated by the Capitol. She had value. She had knowledge. Minister Nunn arranged for the execution to be televised from the Tribute Center instead of live in the City Circle. She insisted it would be more fitting to kill a stylist on a stage. His chief-of-staff then fixed his schedule, forcing the president to be otherwise occupied during the execution itself. They showed him the faked footage afterward. Snow ordered the tape played to all of Panem, with a special viewing for the victors in the dungeon. Frater then took Portia to his home where she'd been hiding in plain sight.

I stare at him incredulously. That's ridiculous. People _see_ Avoxes. I recognized Darius immediately. Portia was on television. People know what she looks like. There is no way she's been living in Frater Snow's house without being recognized.

"No. _You_ see Avoxes. Tributes do. Victims do," he insists. At the word victim I close off, almost like it's a dirty word. I don't like to think of myself as a victim. I am a survivor. But I don't have time to go over connotation and semantics in my head, because he draws my attention back. "My brother doesn't see people for people. None of them do," Frater responds bitterly, and I think of Gale ranting about the Capitol in the woods of 12. The generations of Capitolites infected with blindness instead of compassion. They watch children fight to the death for their own amusement. I thought I'd gotten beyond this, beyond the black and whites, but in this moment it's us versus them.

"Let's do this," I say, removing my cloak and dropping it to the floor. One last makeover. One last time.

Portia squeezes Peeta's hand tight before she lets go and focuses on the task before her. Her head raises, her shoulders drop back, and I realize she is not the submissive one. Everyone in the room does as she wordlessly commands. A look, a gesture and they follow. She is not being shepherded by the Nationless. Much of this plan is her own. She wanted us here. Even Frater follows her instruction, bringing her items and laying them on the counter for accessibility. Portia begins prepping and preening alongside who assume are handmaidens. They strip my clothes and wipe dirt from my body. One sits and methodically scrapes blood from under my nails with the end of a blade. Portia puts some tarlike gunk in my hair, and when she runs my head under the sink my locks fall midnight black around my shoulders. I look paler, although I'm sure the months underground in 13 have contributed to the loss of olive from my skin. She pulls my hair back flat against my head, twisting it into a tight knot. She runs powder over my face and draws wax across my eyebrows before painting them bright red. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of a steel pan.

I don't look like me at all.

I wonder if this is how an Avox feels. Everything about their self-identity is stripped from them. I let my jaw sag a little, like I see theirs do sometimes. I feel empty.

I realize Frater and Peeta are in a corner talking. Peeta nods at each word, listening carefully to every explicit instruction. Despite the room being eerily silent, the help wordless in their audience, I can't make out what is meant for only Peeta. Frater gestures to Portia, who nods and pulls up another stool. Peeta crosses the room and sits in front of me, our knees grazing between us.

"You don't look like you," he says, a lopsided smile on his face. I try to smile but my face is uncooperative. Portia pulls the knit cap from Peeta's head and lifts an electric razor. It buzzes like a colony of bees and I quickly flinch, worrying the sound might bring on some kind of tracker jacker-induced hallucination. I remember it was needles though, not wasps, that delivered the venom in his cells. I watch as golden locks fall from Peeta's head and make a halo around him on the floor. His hair grew long in captivity and he never cut it after he got back. I think the flashing of blades near his face made him unsteady. As the hair is shed from his scalp, he looks entirely different too. His eyes are more vibrantly blue, his jaw more prominent. He doesn't look like a boy. He doesn't look like the frail, injured casualty that returned to 13 weeks ago.

He looks like a soldier. He looks like what the recruits do under their Peacekeeper helmets. They are all uniform too, just like the Avoxes – heads shaved, faces clean, clothes black. Old Cray was less severe about these commands, and I remember Darius's hair as it grew from his head in auburn locks. After Thread was installed, however, every man and woman beneath the mask looked the same.

When Portia finishes she sets the razor on the counter and runs a towel over Peeta's head, and then finally her hands. We are both stripped and dressed. My bow is strapped to my back, forcing my posture straight and my shoulders back. A shapeless red uniform is tugged over my body. A slit down the front plummets from my chin to my navel, and while barely a thread of skin is showing, my cheeks blush through the pale powder on my face. Peeta is dressed in all black, and small bag slung over his shoulder.

We finally finish. Peeta gathers Portia in his arms again, and I squeeze her hand tight.

"Thank you," I mouth to her and no one else. We are about the same height. My hair is now midnight black like hers. I wonder if anyone will see me at all. Frater is right. Portia is right. I'm invisible.

Frater Snow and the head housemaid talk me through formal escort etiquette. I am to walk behind Frater, on his right shoulder. Eyes are to remain on the ground unless addressed directly, hands clasped at my waist. I should not do as instructed by others unless Frater approves of the order. I am here to serve Frater and no one else, not even the President.

Frater approaches the exit from the kitchen and I draw myself to his side. Another few servants accompany us as well but do not seem to have a fixed position on him as I do. These servants are employed, not owned. There is a level of liberty in their movements, something I lack while glued to my pretend master. Peeta falls behind us, catching my eyes quickly before ducking down a separate hallway. At his glance, though, my body starts silently protesting.

He's gone, but I know what his eyes said.

 _I'm sorry_.

I pat my side desperately, but I simply confirm what I already know.

Peeta has the Holo.

 **A/N: Hey lovelies! For those of you that don't follow me, I did post a little holiday one-shot for you for Christmas. Go check out Solstice. I hope you all had an awesome holiday weekend. We got buried with 15 inches of snow, but we were still able to see family, so yay!**


	16. Chapter 16 - Burn

I follow Frater down the hallway, positioned as I was instructed to be – at his side, two paces back. A few more turns and the space becomes more crowded. Officials scurry by, tablets and papers and computers in hand. Inside the mansion you can hear explosions from the street outside. The rooms rattle slightly and the crystal hanging from the chandeliers clinks like the world's most expensive wind chime.

We are ushered into an elevator and ascend floors.

"I want to talk to him first. I'll try to clear the room," Frater states, not turning around to face me. Why are we wasting time? I don't need to hear Snow's voice ever again. I might just shoot him in the throat. I pause, though. Emptying the room of guards improves my chance of success. I nod silently.

When the gilded elevator doors open, I immediately know where I am. The floors are alabaster white with flecks of gold in them. The grout between the tiles is pure affluence. I close my eyes and for a moment I can see Peeta being dragged by guards through this hallway, not knowing what's coming next, taking solace only in that he got me out of the Arena. Knowing he'll accept whatever comes to him in exchange for my safety. And here I am now, walking these halls, almost in spite of his sacrifice.

Off the main hallway is a long corridor leading to a room closed off by double doors, just like Peeta said. This is it.

Snow.

Frater walks confidently down the corridor, guards clearing away to let him pass. None of them even look at me. Frater is right. I'm invisible. The armed guard at the door nods to Frater.

"Master Snow," he says in a deep voice, lowering his eyes in deference. The entire city is crumbling around them, yet the aristocracy stays intact. The guard sweeps the door open and I try to calm my heart as it slams in my chest.

The President's office is unlike the frenzy in the halls. He stands coolly by his window, watching the City Circle burn around him. Only a handful of advisors hold his company. They sit silently on silk sofas, pointing at maps and whispering amongst themselves.

They are looking to escape.

In the corner I spy Minister Nunn. She knows I'm supposed to be here, that I'll be an Avox. She doesn't look at me. None of them look at me. When President Snow turns from the window to Frater, I don't see any affection in his serpentine eyes. He cares, yes, but it's not love. I watch the two of them for a moment before I can put my finger on the word.

Possession.

"I'm pleased you were able to make it, Frater," Snow offers, his voice even. "I didn't expect to see you here alone."

Alone. I'm right here, but Avoxes don't count as humans. Who is Snow referencing? Who did Frater leave behind?

"In the end, human nature takes over," Snow continues with a slippery tongue. "Self preservation. You've always pretended to be above it all, my dear brother, but when push comes to shove here you are, looking for me to save you. Like you always have. Like you always will."

My heart slams against my sternum. My palms sweat and I try to wipe them on my pants inconspicuously. I can't let my arrow slip.

"Sir, evacuation plans are nearly complete," Minister Nunn says uniformly, approaching the President and pushing a stack of papers in front of him on his desk. He doesn't pick them up, merely leans his head down and peruses the papers as he continues, never lifting an eye to Frater.

"I know you think I'm heartless, but the children are a liability. I take it Ana refused to leave them behind?" Snow asks, still reading. Frater nods silently, but Snow doesn't need to look up to perceive his brother's answer. Finally he bobs his head in approval and steps away from the desk before Minister Nunn slides the papers back into her leather-clad hands. "She's always been weak, just like her father. I wanted to bring Juno. We can't always have what we want."

I realize what they are saying. Snow is leaving his granddaughter behind. Frater is leaving his family. There's only one invitation to this elite evacuation.

"Could we speak in private, brother?" Frater asks, his eyes glued to Snow. His jaw is set, his voice steady. Empty the room. Give me an opportunity.

"We can speak on the hovercraft, Frater," Snow replies dismissively. I start to count the people in the space. There are at least a half dozen government officials. Two Avoxes stand quietly along the wall, likely Nationless. I have to assume Frater and Minister Nunn are not a threat. While there are only two armed guards in the room, a dozen wait in the corridor immediately outside and countless more roam the mansion.

It's a suicide mission.

For a second I'm back at camp that first night, singing to the darkness that enveloped the rebel troops. The suicide song from my dad. I see Johanna in my memory, leaning her head on Gale's shoulder. _There will be rest._ I close my eyes and breathe. There will be rest. I will grant this nation rest.

In one swift motion, I reach under my cloak and wrap my fingers around my bow. It hums at my touch. I slip an arrow from my quiver and load it. It feels as though everything is happening in slow motion, that everything in my life has led me to this moment.

 _I see the wooden box sitting on our kitchen table, what's left of my father locked inside._

 _I see my sister with brittle hair and hollow eyes, withering to nothing._

 _I see the dandelion, the bright yellow happy flower telling me we'll be okay._

 _I see Gale, young and shy, a knife perched in his hands. "You can trust me," I whisper, surrounded by the woods._

 _I see my sister reaped. I see a train. The Games. The cave._

 _I see Haymitch drunk and alone, unable to bury his demons._

 _I see the old man from 11, lying on the ground, sleeping forever in a pool of his blood._

 _I see the child from 2, weapon perched in his hands, stealing a life._

 _I see Peeta. Peeta. Peeta. Over and over and over again._

I let the arrow fly, soaring toward my target unfettered by guilt or remorse. This is the one kill I will always mean.

The arrow pierces Snow's throat and he flickers before it slams into the wall behind him. I stare at his digital apparition, and it starts to laugh in that cold, menacing way that makes my stomach flip. He's not even here.

"Miss Everdeen, always the fool. Always the petulant child," the hologram scolds me like a disappointed authoritarian. "You can't possibly believe me to be so easily deceived. I know about you, and my brother, and Minister Nunn's betrayal." I look at Minister Nunn and a flash of some emotion I can't identify crosses her eyes. Is it guilt? She looks like a wife caught cheating on her husband. "By the time you reach my location, I'll be long gone."

The hologram freezes to a still frame, the audio of his voice is overwhelmed by the sound of chopping wind, and I realize where he is. He's right. I will never get up there before he escapes. Snow is on the roof.

As if hearing my thoughts, Frater whispers, "So is Peeta."

An explosion rocks the building and I am thrown to the floor. _Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock._ All hell breaks loose.

The double doors slam open and the room is flooded with Peacekeepers. I wonder if I should protect Frater, but he's not my priority. I need to get to Peeta. I need to get to the roof. The Peacekeepers open fire, unsystematically spraying the room with bullets. I'm not sure they even know who they are shooting at. The two Avoxes grab Frater and bolt for the door. The guards don't know Frater has betrayed them, and a few join the Avoxes in the attempt to usher him to safety. As if safety is a real thing in a war zone.

I am exposed. Maybe they don't see my face, but they see the bow and arrow clasped in my hands. Weapons train on me and I am only able to send off a single arrow before I dive behind a wooden desk. It's incendiary, and the room is set ablaze. Peacekeeper and cabinet member alike flee, the flame eagerly consuming the taffeta curtains, running up the walls. I'm not going to be able to leave through the double doors, where the guards wait with guns loaded. There must be another way out of here. I run my hands along the wall and floor. A secret door, a latch, a hideaway. There is no way this paranoid president didn't have some means of escape. My lungs start to burn and I cough hard as any remaining oxygen is burned from the air. My eyes water. The heat intensifies, and it feels as though my skin my melt away from my body. In the midst of the flames, the flickering hologram of President Snow has paused, still. It flickers as the fire whips across the room, and finally he fades into nothingness. I spy Minister Nunn's body, slouched over Snow's chair, her clothing set ablaze. The smell of cooking flesh makes vomit lurch in my throat, but I keep my fingers grazing, searching, looking for absolution.

I find nothing. I don't have a way out of here.

It seems fitting that I leave this world as the girl on fire.


	17. Chapter 17 - The Roof

_"I don't think anybody noticed, little duck," I whisper as I tuck a stray hair behind my little sister's ear. Ever since I started hunting with Gale, she's started to get taller, and quickly. Before, she barely made it past my belly button, but now she's almost reached my chest. "Sit, before dinner gets cold."_

 _She plops herself unceremoniously at the table and I spoon some rabbit stew into her bowl. It's plain. I've never really been able to dress up food. The broth is clear and alongside the chunks of rabbit float little pieces of parsley I found growing at the edge of the meadow. I didn't even know what it was at first, but I picked a bunch and matched it to my family's plant book when I got home. Prim gulps her meal down quickly and returns to the pot on the stove._

 _"I'm going to bring some to Mom," she tells me back to. I watch her disappear into my mother's room. I think I'd just let her starve. She was going to let us. Seems fair. But as little Prim ducks back out again, I see in her what I've never seen in myself. Compassion. Kindness. She loves with an open heart. I rest my head on the table, drowsy from a long day's excursion hunting in the woods. She runs her tiny hand across my cheek and I feel my eyelids start to droop under her calming touch._

 _"Katniss," she whispers, her voice sounding far away._

 _"Hm?" I hum, letting sleep pull me under._

 _"Katniss," she murmurs again. "You saved us. Nobody else. Just you."_

 _I nod, my face pressed against the table. "Sometimes you have to save yourself," I mumble sleepily._

 _"Katniss," she barely breathes this time, but I can't seem to open my eyes. "Katniss. Time to save yourself. Time to wake up."_

 _"What?" I slur._

 _"Wake up!"_

I jolt awake coughing and sputtering on the floor of Snow's office. Everything around me burns. I cover my mouth with my sleeves, but every breath in feels like it's setting my insides to flames. I close my eyes as I hack and I see Prim's flaxen hair, nearly white. When I look again, I see a white light penetrating through the black, smoldering smoke. A window. Time to save myself.

I crawl across the room, staying low. I know I can't just open the window. Something bad will happen when the room floods with oxygen. I need to be out of the way. I reach back to my satchel and try to find something of use but come up empty. On the table near me is a stone paper weight. Good enough. I crawl, burying my face in my shirt. When I grab the jade orb it's warm to the touch, but it doesn't scald my palm, which I might have worried about before I touched it, were I thinking clearly. I hurl the weight at the window with all my might. It smashes open with a shutter and after a small flare, the fire regulates itself again. I crawl forward and hold my breath while I wrap the shirt around my arm. I run it against the frame, clearing the window of debris and broken glass. I stick my face out into the air, gasping for oxygen, ignoring the shift from scorching heat to bitter cold. I look down.

I can't jump. I'm much too high and the street is littered with tiny white dots as Peacekeepers scatter and reform. I look above me. The roof is on fire.

Just crawl from one fire to another, I think, but I know what that roof brings. The two things I want more than anything.

Peeta.

And Snow.

I'm a good climber, but the smooth marble of the mansion's exterior walls will give me no traction. I can't leap high enough to catch the next sill. I scream in frustration. The fire advances in the office. I need to make a decision. Staying here is not an option. I climb out onto the window sill, standing with my back against the building, my palms pressed flat against the walls. The sill is maybe five or six inches deep, and my toes stick out over the edge. I reach one hand above me and cling to the decorative window ornaments, digging the other into the satchel when I feel it.

I assumed we lost Johanna's axe, but it's hiding in my stockpile of weapons. Gale must have grabbed it, I don't know. I don't have time to figure this out. I need to think back to our training with Beetee. He said the head is a grappling hook. I run my eyes desperately across the smooth handle. The wind lashes viciously around me, my hair whipping about my head like birds searching for foothold on a wire. There is a groove on the edge of the handle. This has to be it. I try to turn my body sideways, gripping inside the window with one arm, leaning away from the trellis. I hang perilously high, but I ignore the sick feeling in my throat and hurl the axe upward, sweeping my finger over the groove.

The head of the axe releases and soars up the side of the building, pounding its way into the stone wall with incredible force. The handle remains in my hand, attached to the head by an inch-thick cable.

"Okay, okay…" I mutter to myself as I try to brave the courage to step off the ledge. I have no idea if this will hold. I swallow hard and plant my feet into the wall, edging my way slowly to the right until there is nothing below me but the street hundreds of feet down. I keep the horizontal movement until I'm directly under the head of the axe. I use my arms and start to walk up the wall, pulling myself hand over first on the cable. It's slow moving, and with each hoist my arms shake more and more. I stop part way up and close my eyes.

"Breathe. Just breathe," I whisper as I try to calm the feeling of acid eating the muscles of my limbs, my back, my stomach. My fingers have grown numb in the biting winter wind and I start to worry I will lose my grip if I wait too much longer. I pull forward, yanking myself up with little grace or efficiency. When I finally reach the edge of the roof, I nearly cry out in relief. My hands run along the concrete ledge, seeking purchase to pull myself up. When I finally do I land on the ground hard and for a moment I just lie there, my heart racing in my chest, melting into the roof. I roll over to take in the scene.

A hovercraft sits smoldering on the roof, bits of debris and wreckage scattered recklessly about the area. This was the explosion that shook the building. Peeta was on escape routes, yes, but not mine. He sabotaged Snow's ability to flee. He used the Holo to blow the hovercraft. A wave of nausea runs over my body, and I feel dread manifest itself in my toes, my stomach, my throat.

Was Peeta inside the hovercraft?

Was Snow?

I run through the scenarios in my head when I hear a commotion from the far side of the roof. I crawl slowly and hide myself behind large vent.

"This was never about you, Peeta," Snow's voice sneers across the roof. I edge my head up and spy him standing there, bruised and burned. A slick of blood runs down the side of his head and stains his white beard red.

Red on white.

It ends here.

Surrounding Snow is an army of guards – at least a dozen. Peeta stands maybe twenty feet across from them, arms at his side, weaponless. He's wearing a Peacekeeper's uniform, although his helmet is off and lying on the ground next to him. The uniform is scorched with black.

"It was never about you either," Peeta replies, his voice even. He's right. This story, this battle, this war is not about him. It's not about Snow or the Mockingjay or Coin or any one of us. It's about a people. It's about hope. It's about standing up for what's right. We – Peeta and me, the Districts, Panem – we are better together. Snow has never seen that. He's never seen beyond his own need for power.

"How many triggers did you find Peeta?" Snow asks, watching Peeta's face for a reaction. Peeta remains calm, but I perceive his shoulders tense. "Two? Three?" We've found three words, plus the mutt blood. Are there more? "Even if you manage to survive this Peeta, you can never be with her. You'll think everything is fine, and then one day you'll baking in the kitchen, and she'll come down and say something harmless, like _kettle_ or _sunset_ , and you'll rip her throat out." At the triggers, Peeta drops to his knees. He's shaking, trembling, but he forces himself back to his feet and glares back at Snow. His black pupils have consumed the blue of his eyes, his jaw locks.

"Maybe you'll be sleeping in her bed, and you'll murmur something sweet on lover's lips, and instead it is her death sentence. Something like _precious_ or _darling._ " Peeta groans and brings his hands to his head, but there is no hair to pull. No pain to inflict upon himself to focus. But instead of falling to the ground, he grits his teeth and raises his eyes to Snow.

Snow is unprepared. He assumed Peeta would crumble with trigger after trigger. He hesitates for a moment, stepping back on one foot as if to catch his balance. He has been thrown off guard. He spurts out another trigger, and Peeta steps forward. The potent scent from his rose drifts across the roof – he's surrounded himself by what he assumed was a failsafe. Instead, Peeta moves forward. He's been triggered, yes, but he's in control. Snow straightens his back.

"Kill him," Snow orders his guards. The Peacekeepers raise their weapons.

It happens faster than I can comprehend. The bullets fly, but Peeta has already dropped to the ground, sliding forward with his mechanical leg out and shattering the shin of the guard he slams into. In a moment Peeta's in front on them. They can't fire or they'll shoot themselves. The guards have volume, yes, but Peeta is triggered. Peeta is a Mutt who feels no pain.

One Peacekeepers lands a punch squarely in Peeta's jaw. Any normal man would hit the ground, but instead, Peeta rips the gun from the man's hands and smashes it into the man's head. He ducks to evade another attack, tackling one guard in the stomach and throwing his body into another. Peacekeeper after Peacekeeper falls to the ground until one a few feet from Peeta raises her gun and trains it on his skull. Peeta looks over with black eyes, unable to outrun a bullet. I bolt up.

"Take one step and I kill Snow," I bellow, standing on the ledge and pointing my arrow at Snow. The guards look back and forth between me and Peeta, unable to discern what they should do. Finally they look to Snow.

"Miss Everdeen. How thoughtful of you to join us," Snow says snidely.

We are at all stalemate. If I kill Snow, Peeta dies. There are still four armed Peacekeepers on their feet. None of us are leaving this roof.

"You're not getting out of this alive, Miss Everdeen. Even if you kill me, you'll never make it out of this building," Snow's slithery words hang in the winter air. "This place will be a tomb for us both." He bends over, coughing into a white handkerchief, wiping blood from his lips. "There are so many things we should discuss, but our time on this earth is brief. Anyone can see the game is over. So play your part, Mockingjay. Shoot me. Be the pawn I've always known you to be."

"I'm not your pawn anymore!" I shout across the roof over the crackling noise of the burning aircraft.

"Not mine, no," Snow answers, sputtering blood again. He wipes the corner of his mouth, and I wonder if this last coughing spell was meant to give me time to ponder his words. "Pity. My failure, _your_ failure, was being too slow to grasp the larger plan. All this time, I've been watching you, and you've been watching me. I'm afraid we have both been played for fools."

What is he talking about? These are the naïve ramblings of an old man, stripped of all he has, all he is.

"Neither of us were watching _her_ ," he responds, and I realize what he's saying. This whole war. It hasn't been about freeing Panem. I'm in another power play. Only this time, it's Coin who is pushing the buttons. "I believe it was Peeta who asked – do you know who you are working for? What atrocities fall on her shoulders, Miss Everdeen? What is to come?"

"She's just a means to an end," I answer, pulling back on my string.

"As are you, my dear," he replies.

"I don't believe you," I answer coldly. He's trying to get me to doubt myself. He'll say anything to buy time.

"Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other." With a flick of his hand, the Peacekeeper's guns leave Peeta and train on me. In a split second I let my arrow fly, and I leap backward off the roof.


	18. Chapter 18 - Corridors and Halls

I can't focus on anything. I'm hurdling head over feet through the air. I reach desperately for my belt where I slid the handle of the axe. This is going to hurt. This is going to hurt. I grab it with my hand just as I reach the end of the cable. I snap to a stop with such force that I feel like every bone in my body might break. I slam into the side of the building and pain surges through my arm. I dislocated my shoulder again. I know I did. Twenty feet to my left, flame and fire leaps from the mouth of Snow's office. It's not an option. Instead, I hang uselessly stories above the ground. I try to climb but my arms barely have enough left in them to hold on, and even that effort leaves my entire body shaking with exertion. I don't know how much longer I can do this. I slide my bow over my shoulder and press my cheek against the cold marble wall.

"Katniss!" I hear a voice come bellowing down from above. I strain my head upward.

"Peeta!" I cry out, relief flushing my body until I see his charcoal black eyes. Everything inside him is telling him to kill me.

"Hold on!" he yells as he reaches for the cable. He groans loudly as he begins hoisting the tow and my body pulls up with a jerk. My hands slip and I kick my legs wildly to get back against the wall. "Katniss!" Peeta cries out again, desperation evident in his voice.

"I'm okay!" I call, locking my pointer finger with my pinky of the hand above, trying to better my grip. "I'm okay, keep pulling!"

Peeta resumes the arduous task of pulling me up to the roof. I close my eyes and concentrate on my hands and nothing else. Hold on. Hold on. When I'm finally close enough to see Peeta I lean my head back and find his eyes. I feel as though I can hear the vicious voices in his head that he's trying to fight. _Drop her. Cut the cable. See if the Mockingjay can fly._ With one more grand pull, he holds the cable in one hand reaches out to me with the other.

"Take my hand!" he says, straining with the weight. In this moment I have to make a choice. Do I trust him? Do I let go of the cable?

I remember back to our Tour, lying in my bed, watching Peeta sleep next to me. Realizing what was broken between us. He didn't trust me. He loved me ferociously. He wanted nothing more than to be with me. But he didn't trust me. I hadn't earned it. I look back up at the boy with black eyes. Has he earned it?

I reach out my hand for his. At the feel of my skin, his pupils dilate and recede.

"I got you," he breathes, blue bursting through the black.

"I know," I answer, and Peeta plants his feet and heaves me up over the side of the building. We crash to the ground unceremoniously. We're both lying on our backs, facing the cold winter sun, panting. I reach out and find his hand, clasping it in mine.

"Hi," I whisper, chest heaving.

"Hi," he whispers back, a half smile smirked on his lips. I don't know what's come over me, but I laugh. The frozen air hurts my lungs, and I can see my breath as it bursts out of my mouth uncontrollably. Peeta laughs too, and neither one of us know what to do. The weight of it all is too much.

"Did I get him?" I ask, finally stilling my chest.

"Yeah, you got him," Peeta replies, and we lay in silence for a moment.

"I don't think we are going to make it out of this building," I say. I don't know how to signal to the rebels that Snow has been killed. I'm sure they can see the black smoke smoldering on the rooftop of the mansion, but they can't know for sure. We need to get to the street.

I remember before the Quell, lying in bed with Peeta, watching him sleep, watching his chest rise and fall. We've grown up since then. We aren't the same people. I don't know why my mind keeps flitting backward, but maybe it's that I don't want to be here on this roof. I want to think back to a safer time, in the quiet of my bedroom or his, cloaked in quilts and darkness. But that's not where we are. Not what we need to do.

"I need you to pop my shoulder back in," I tell him. "I dislocated it."

"Again?" he jokes, but time for laughter has passed and now it's uncomfortable. It feels weird joking here among the fallen, but at least our last moments together won't be full of fear. He shoves my arm back into its socket, trying unsuccessfully to hide the flash of guilt he feels when I cry out. I stand up, brushing off my legs. I strip the red cloak from my body and pull my Mockingjay hood back over my torso. I look out and see the four remaining Peacekeepers among the others littered on the ground.

"I need to get out of this uniform or I'll get shot by the rebels," Peeta states.

"Maybe we can pretend I'm your prisoner or something?" I ask, but when our eyes meet we are both thinking the same thing. If we're going to die in this hallway, we're going to die as us. Peeta strips off the white armor and drops it on the ground. He's dressed in all black, his head shaved. He finds the knit cap in his pocket and tugs it back over his head. Peeta straps a couple spare weapons on his body and engages the gun in his hand. I pull the sharp, red head piece from my head and drop my hair loose at my shoulders before I knot the locks in a quick braid. I slip on the rest of my uniform and pull my bow and quiver over my body, cocking a gun in my hand.

Peeta turns to me and slides his hands along my cheeks, locking his fingers behind my neck. I drop my head down and press it into his chest. At least one more time, we can be the boy with the bread. The girl with the bow.

"You ready?" he asks softly. I nod into him, finally raising my head.

"I love you," I whisper. I don't say it enough. I hardly say it at all.

"I love you, too," Peeta tells me. Before the hijacking, he was easy with his odes of adoration. Since returning, he's hardly said the words at all. But they were always there, behind whatever chaos was forcing itself forward. It's been there for both of us.

"Together?" I ask. One more time.

"Together," he responds.

I look over my shoulder and find Snow's dead body, my arrow protruding from his head. His mouth is twisted in a sardonic, gory grin. I walk over and rip to white rose from his lapel. It's stained in blood. His blood. This is over.

Only it's not.

We open the door.

The narrow hallway is empty, the silence deafening. I can feel my heart slamming against my chest, beating and screaming and telling me to go back to the roof and hide. But there are people dying on the street. We need to tell the rebels. We need the war to end. Peeta hits the light switch and drops the corridor into pitch blackness. We move forward slowly. There is nothing to be heard other than our shallow breaths.

I hold my gun at the ready as we reach the corner. Peeta and I make eye contact. He nods curtly, and we turn into the open space. The area is flooded with Peacekeepers, but they aren't expecting us. Peeta fires upon them, trying to keep his shots non-lethal – hands, legs, knees, but in a second they are firing back. I shoot with deadly accuracy, but I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a burning in my leg and a gasp escapes my mouth. I'm shot. Peeta looks back at me. It's enough of a lapse for a Peacekeeper to slam the back of his head with the butt of a gun. Peeta drops hard to the floor.

I see the mob of Peacekeepers descend. This is it. We haven't even made it a minute.

"Mockingjay!" I cry out, and Peeta looks up at me with panic. He wanted to die as himself, as Peeta, but his eyes blow out and he stands, a mutt looming over its assailant. Peeta grabs the gun and throws it across the room before punching the man under the jaw full force. The guard's head snaps back and his eyes roll before he drops to the ground. I rip a piece of my shirt and try to wrap it around my wound. I look down and see blood pouring over my ankle. I'll deal with the bullet later. I just need to stop the blood flow. I pull the fabric tight. I watch as Peeta grabs another man, using him as a shield before throwing him into an oncoming troop of soldiers. Down the hall, a fresh flow of guards arrive to replenish the fallen. I see the lead Peacekeeper place his aim on Peeta. I pull my bow from my body and send an arrow flying down the hall, penetrating the man's chest.

"Run!" I call to Peeta, and we take off down a side corridor. I try to keep pace, if not ungracefully, leaving a trail of blood in my wake.

"Here! Here!" Peeta slides to a stop in front of a steel door. He slams it with his shoulder but the door is unforgivingly solid. He brings his false leg up and kicks the thing hard. It swings open violently, smashing into the wall and leaving crumbs of plaster on the floor. We dart inside, searching for something to block the doorway, but we're just in another hallway. The walls are plain white, the tile floor pristine, save for the pool of blood gathering at my feet.

"We need to move. They'll know exactly where I went," I spit out, staring at the bloody tracks I'm leaving in my wake.

 _Move._ We turn and I hobble down the hallway, groaning as my leg sears in agony. I sling my bow back over my shoulder and ready my gun. Peeta walks backward, scanning the passage behind us. We're in the servant wing of the building. I feel a hand reach out and grab me, pulling me into a room off the side.

"Peeta!" I call out, but my voice is muffled by a hand over my mouth. I spin around and press my gun against the assailant's temple before Peeta switches on the lights in the dim room. The servant shakes in fear, the whites in her eyes bulging. I drop my weapon. _I'm sorry,_ I mouth, and the woman lifts a finger to her mouth and silences me. I see Peeta's frame shift back to the doorway, eyeing my situation and then keeping his eyes trained toward the Peacekeepers.

A half dozen servants are pressed into a corner like insects running from the light. The first Avox hits the lightswitch again, plunging the room back into near black. The only light that invades the space is a crack of sunlight sneaking in through the gap in a covered window. The servants move about noiselessly, muted by torture rather than covertness. One points at my leg and the other darts back into the darkness, returning with a needle and a length of linen. I look around me. They must be seamstresses. As my eyes adjust I see a number of sewing stations set up, a laundry, a line with drying dyed clothes. For a minute I'm back at our house in the Seam, a rope running across our living room, wet socks dripping onto the floor.

 _Stay present._

The Avox drops to her knees and unwraps my leg. I bite my lip and try not to make noise as she quickly sews the wound closed. That's a bad idea for later – closing the bullet inside with whatever other debris is in the wound. I'd worry about infection, but it's unlikely it will matter. She wraps some linen around it and ties it tight. Okay, at least now I'm not leaving a trail behind me.

"Get inside!" Peeta whispers urgently, closing the door and shoving us backward. We hear footsteps pounding in the hallway, pausing in front of our door. I ready my gun and force the women behind me, but before I know what's happening they each line up between me and the entry. They are unarmed, proving nothing more than a human shield. But they know. I need to get out of this building.

The door swings open and we see a flash of metal.

A gun.


	19. Chapter 19 - Out

"Katniss?" a voice whispers into the darkness. Familiar. Worried. "Katniss?"

"Gale!" I call out, pushing my way through to the front of the room. I leap into his arms and he squeezes me tight.

"I got tired of waiting," he breathes into my hair. He drops me back on my feet and looks at me expectantly.

"I killed him. He's dead," I confirm. An unnamable look spreads over his face. Relief. Justice. Uncertainty. Resolve.

"Come on, I've got you a route out of here," he whispers urgently. When he spies Peeta he pats his shoulder roughly. "Good to see you, Peet." Good to see you alive, but he isn't completing the sentence. We know. The Avoxes part to let us through, but before I leave the room I stop and look back at them.

"Thank you," I whisper. They nod in acknowledgement, _you're welcome_ hung on their lips like so other many words left unsaid.

In the hallway a number of Nationless soldiers line the wall. Gale gestures with his hand and we follow. The fluorescent light overhead seems too bright, flickering fitfully and buzzing in my ear. Gale leads us down one hallway and up another, the mansion contorting itself into a twisted maze of identical walls, floors, and ceilings. Gale stops suddenly, raising his hand in the air.

"Here," he stops, pointing up. Above my head is a metal grate. Air vents. One of the Nationless boosts Gale up and he pulls the grate back to reveal a narrow metal tube. Gale pulls himself up into the vent and offers a hand back down. One at a time, the soldier climb into the vent and pull up the next. Peeta weaves his fingers together and boosts me up. Gale grabs my hand and hauls me inside before reaching for Peeta. Peeta leaps up and grabs Gale's hand, pulling himself inside.

A soldier pulls the grate back in place, and I peek through the holes to make sure I didn't leave any blood on the ground. The floor is pristinely white. We move slowly down the shaft. It's crowded and the air is hot and dry. I feel as though my eyeballs are starting to shrivel. I can't see anything in front of me, just the feet of the soldier crawling ahead. I start to wonder how we are supposed to drop stories down to the bottom floor when we stop suddenly. The vent splits in four directions, each surrounding a giant shoot. It's a straight shot down.

"It goes down to the radiator in the basement," Gale answers as we split ourselves between the four shafts. Gale begins hooking up gear and drops a rope down the tunnel. I stare at the rope tentatively. My shoulder just got shoved back in place. I don't think I can hold my weight again.

"I got you," Peeta breathes, wrapping the harness around my body and clipping it to his own. His hand shakes a little and I remember he's afraid of heights. I remember him perched in a tree in twelve, clinging to the branches with white knuckles. He shoves it down, though. He has something to focus on. A job to do.

"We have a long way down, guys. We need to move as silently as possible," Gale orders. The rest of the team drops over the side and begins the long descent. A few clench bite-lights between their teeth, but other than these spotlights of illumination, the entire drop is black. I hear nothing but staggered breaths and leather on rope. My chest is pressed against Peeta's as he lowers us both slowly down the shoot. The muscles in his shoulders and arms bulk and slim as he moves us both.

"Shh!" Gale calls out from above and the entire line pauses. We hear footsteps pound in the mansion, pausing in front of us. We hold our breath. Stay quiet. Stay still. It's ironic that the Nationless have spent years of their lives unwillingly silenced, and now it may be their only hope for survival.

"They're in the walls!" one Peacekeeper blares out, and suddenly the partition is sprayed with bullets that split through the drywall like paper, piercing into the vent. Those on the other side of the wall fall limp on the rope, hanging lifelessly from their harnesses. The smell of burnt paint and blood wafts upward. The bullets stop as the Peacekeepers approach the walls, stilling their bodies to listen.

"Get ready," Gale whispers and I see him reach for the release. We're going into a freefall. I look below me, the dead hanging from the rope like prey in one of Gale's traps, lifeless and dripping onto the soldiers below them. Peeta spins his body so his back is facing the Peacekeepers. I understand what he wants and unstrap the gun from his back, cocking it in my hand.

"Three…. Two…." At one, Gale hits the release and we drop hard. I feel Peeta's arms wrap around my waist tight, ready to catch me when Gale slams on the brake. As we pass the wall, for a second it reminds me of a piece of construction paper Prim poked holes in with a pencil. "See, Katniss, it's like the stars," she whispered, her tiny fingers tracing each hole. I open fire as I pass the floor, shooting recklessly outward, unsure if I hit anyone at all. We plummet dozens of feet before Gale stops the descent, and we each slam to a stop. Peeta's fingers dig into my hips.

"I got you, I got you," he whispers repeatedly.

"How many stories?" Gale shouts down to the bottom. The other Peacekeepers know. There's no point in hiding it now.

I see the man below hold up four fingers. "Four!" I shout back up the rope.

"Unclip! We need to climb!" he calls. I look at Peeta.

"I can do it, I got you," he reassures me. I wrap my legs around his waist and we begin our descent, but we reach the dead bodies almost immediately. Peeta gulps and uses whatever he can to hang on. The rope is slick with blood, and so he ends up clenching on to clothes, hands… whatever offers a grip. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers to the corpses as we work our way over them. We finally are beneath them, and I look up and watch the bodies get smaller as we descend to the basement. That's not a proper grave for a warrior. Where will I end up? Where will Gale? Where will any of us?

When we finally reach the basement, my feet are relieved to find the ground. Peeta unbuckles us, dropping the harnesses at our feet. The basement is lit by a run of recessed lights. The ground is a smooth concrete, the walls are made of bleached brick and mortar. It's empty, save for the clicking and humming machinery that runs along one wall. The space is narrow but very long. Gale drops down and signals to follow him. We all dart down the length of the basement, keeping our guns up at our chest. My leg burns furiously and I push the thought from my mind. We reach the end of the basement faster than I'd expected. Gale shoves open an exit door and clears the area before waving us inside.

The hallway is entirely steel. The walls and ceiling are indistinguishably shiny, the floor made of a grate that at least offers some traction under my boots. One of the Nationless swings the door behind us closed and it slams with a heavy bang. The room feels sterile, almost surgical. At the sight of it, Peeta falls backward, pressing his fingers into the shiny wall. The color has dropped from his face. I know this look.

I remember the medical rooms outside the dungeon. It's probably where he was hijacked. He's probably reliving the hijacking now in his mind. I can tell he isn't breathing. He catches me looking at him and feigns some resolve.

"You should go. I'll go back and guard the hall," he states.

"Peeta –" I start softly, but he throws his hands up.

"Go with Gale. He'll get you out of here," he insists, as if reason plays any part in this decision.

I put my hands on his cheeks and he swats them away. He's trembling. I can't even get a word in before he starts rambling. "I can't. I can't, Katniss. I can't do this," he stammers, his entire body protesting. He looks sick.

"It has never been about us. You said so on the roof. This is about our people, and they are dying, Peeta. On both sides. You can stop it. They need you," I reason, my eyes locked with his. If I don't make it, he might. One of us needs to tell the rebels. Peeta looks like he is about to break apart. "I need you," I whisper. I've never seen him this terrified. I can feel his heart fluttering, not completing a full beat. He can't focus. He's dizzy with adrenaline. I think of that night in the dark, tracing unnamable scars on his skin, like a map of the horrors he survived. _What did they do to you?_

"Okay," he barely spits out, and after a few people go up he follows me through the door.

"Let's move," I order, looking back up to Gale. He leads us down the steel hallways. I turn to Peeta, my voice barely above a breath. "Just keep your eyes on me, okay?" When he looks up at me, though, his pupils are blowing in and out. He can barely see. His hands follow the wall as he tries to keep up, but after just a few steps he drops to his knees. He's not the just the Mutt. It's back and forth and back and forth, blue and black and blue. Peeta can't process what's real. It's slipping away from him.

"Gale!" he cries out, and the entire forward motion ceases. He digs his nails viciously into his palms, rocking back onto his heels and forward again. He looks out with blind eyes. "Gale!" his voice rings desperately.

Gale runs to the back of the crew and kneels in front of Peeta. "Hey, I'm here," he offers, his eyes trained on Peeta. Peeta's stare darts from Gale to me. He looks at me with fury seeping through his skin.

"Get her away from me," he growls, wrath and rage dripping in his words. It's too much. Snow – trigger after trigger. The rose. The blood. The vent. Me, screaming Mockingjay at him. I was trying to help. He can't hold on. Even now, though, under the sweat and froth, Peeta is there. Get her away from me. _Keep her safe._

We have to get Peeta out of here. The longer he's in the mansion, the more agony he's in. This was why he resisted coming to the Capitol, but I kept pushing, and now he's on the brink of losing himself. I slam down on my knees in front of him, bone smacking off steel. I grab Peeta's hands, which tremble as he clenches them as tight as he can. I slide them against my face and his eyes shoot to mine.

"Come back to me, I'm right here," I whisper over and over and over again. The Nationless stand around us watching. They hadn't realized how badly broken Peeta had become. 13 was careful in what information leaked about the recovered boy. But now they see him for the shell he is, trembling and vulnerable and deadly. "I'm right here," I breathe, and finally his hands loosen, the balled fists unfurling. "I know what they did here," I reaffirm. He's not crazy. Maybe it wasn't here, but somewhere, in some sterile steel box, they took Peeta away. They hurt him until he broke. "I know what they did, I know, but I'm here now. I am real, I am right in front of you. I am real. And so are you. You are not the Mutt, Peeta. You are real."

"Catnip, we have to go," Gale calls back.

"Give me a minute!" I snap back, not breaking away from Peeta's eyes. Softer, I address the shivering boy. "Hey, let's get out of here. Sneak away with me," I whisper. _Follow me out of here._ He nods, weaving his fingers in my hands. His skin is on fire. Gale leads the way down the steel hallway until we reach a large set of double doors. They are locked, and Gale slams the butt of his gun into the door repeatedly until one of the handles tears of and clangs loudly on the floor. He pushes the door open and I'm blinded by sunlight.

We're out.


	20. Chapter 20 - And in the Sky

The respite is short-lived. I hear a zip noise behind me and one of the Nationless falls to the ground.

"Close the door! Close the door!" Gale shouts, and I grab the heavy, metal door and slam it shut. "Run!" Gale yells and we take off behind him. We're at a servant entrance in the back of the palace. This time, we aren't running away, though. Now we are running _toward_ the rebels, _toward_ the fighting. As we turn the corner of the building we find ourselves the courtyard where we left Gale stationed just hours ago. I pull my bow from my back and load an arrow.

"Cover me!" I order as I leap up onto the ledge of a fountain. A winged woman made of stone stands in the middle of a pool of water, her hands cupped as a stream spills from waterfall above. I position myself partly behind her, lean to the side, and send an arrow flying toward the pursuing Peacekeeping force. It's my last incendiary weapon. All my explosives were used in the sewer. I only have a half dozen regular arrows left. A fireball bursts at the Peacekeepers' feet and they slam to a stop. We take off running again but they fire at us blindly through the smoke and flame.

Gale bolts toward the gate and skids to a stop, pulling out the ring of keys Frater used to open the iron fence. His hands flit quickly through the chain, but bullets slam into the ground and whiz by our heads. The keys jingle like the bells on a horse. In my head I'm jutted back to the parade, Finnick crunching cubes of sugar and asking for my secrets. I have no idea where he is now. If he's even still alive. I'm jerked back to reality when another soldier falls dead at my feet.

"Got it! Got it!" Gale exclaims as he finds the right key, hands shaking as he plunges it into the lock and shoves the gate open with a grunt. We flood out of the courtyard and into the street. To the right, there is nothingness. Streets are empty, abandoned. We could run away. We could survive. Instead, we turn left, running toward the mayhem. Plunging headfirst into a warzone.

I feel my feet give way beneath me as I slip on something slick on the pavers. I look down and realize my leg is bleeding again. I wonder why I don't feel it throbbing and I realize I can't actually feel my foot anymore. I step forward again but my leg practically buckles underneath me.

"Katniss!" Peeta spins around and drops down next to me. Out of the steel box, he seems to have a clearer handle on things. His brow is knit in concern.

"I can't feel my foot anymore," I say, pounding it into the ground.

"Don't, don't! You might hurt yourself," Peeta says, laying his hand on my thigh. "Just… ugh, this is awful advice, but try just locking your knee when you walk. That's what I did when…" his voice trails off. When he was seriously injured in the leg. When he nearly died. It's just a circle game with us. Over and over. Round and round. Injuries. Words. Looks. Repeat.

"Okay," I say, and he hauls me to my feet. I lock my knee and it seems to help. Well, it lets me move forward at least. After a couple minutes I get used to it and my knee starts to bend as the loss of feeling becomes more normal.

We reach the square and a pit opens up in my stomach.

Get to the rebels. Stop the war. Tell them Snow is dead.

Tell who?

The circle is utter chaos. Rebels and Peacekeepers alike shoot bullets like they are throwing seed to birds, handfuls of metal just landing where it lands. Refugee Capitolites run toward the mansion barricades, clinging to the last thing that offered any kind of shelter from the war. The ground shakes as different explosives detonate, repelling people away from the alleys and right into the turmoil. There is nowhere for them to hide.

My eyes dart around, trying to identify any kind of leadership, but every rebel looks the same. There is no obvious commander or chief anymore. Everyone is in a fight for the life, for the lives of their families. I'll need to tell all of them, but how will I get their attention? How will I tell them Snow is dead?

I look back to the barricade near the mansion entrance. It's a cement barrier about four feet high that extends in a large rectangle in front of the mansion. On top of the cement blocks runs a chain link fence, extending the total height of the barrier to six or seven feet. I would have thought it would be empty, but it's packed with refugees. Maybe while I was inside they selected a group to be sheltered in the mansion. Little did they know the warfare extended inside the walls, too.

I could climb the fence. Draw everyone's attention. I'll probably get shot, but if they see me, that's enough. I reach for the bloody rose in my pocket. I know what it means. I know what it says. Snow is dead. I just have to show them. As I draw closer to the barricade, though, I notice something else. The refugees are all children. Toddlers to teenagers, terrified and frostbitten and huddled together. Maybe this is a bad idea. I don't want to draw gunfire to a group of helpless, penned in children.

My mind flits. They aren't being led inside. They are in a pen, surrounded by Peacekeepers. This isn't for their own protection. Snow built himself a human shield. I don't for a minute regret killing that man. His death will not haunt my sleep, like those I killed in the Arena or in the streets of the Capitol.

"The rebels! The rebels!" I hear screaming and I'm suddenly lifted off my feet as the crowd surges left. Peeta grabs my hand and yanks me toward him, but we've moved yards from our destination. I look toward my right. A large faction of rebels as entered the square from the east, nearly doubling their numbers.

"Katniss, here, here!" Peeta calls over the crowd. He offers his hands and boost me up next to a flagpole. I cling to the frozen metal, hooking my foot around the pole and pulling myself up by the rope that flaps at the side. This might work. I look down and spy Gale and Peeta guarding the base of the pole. I scan the crowd. The rebels massively outnumber the Peacekeepers now. I know what would happen next, if Snow were alive. He'd start detonating pods, regardless of Capitol casualties. Anything to slow the throng. But he's dead, his advisors are dead. There is no response.

I stare up to the sky and see a flock of birds flying overhead. I remember camping before the siege. Singing to the troops.

 _In the sky,  
The larks still bravely singing fly,  
Scarce heard amidst the guns below._

I strain to hear their song. I try to imagine them singing, calling to one another. For a moment I think I can, or maybe it's all in my head, but as the song finds my ears it just as suddenly falls silent. A hovercraft appears overhead, a Capitol emblem emblazed on its belly. It hovers over the barricaded children. Scores of silver parachutes rain down on them. Even in the chaos they know what a silver parachute means. Food. Medicine. Gifts. Tiny hands shoot to the sky, eagerly catching the presents and pulling at the strings with frozen, blue fingers. The hovercraft disappears from the sky.

Five seconds later, about twenty of the parachutes simultaneously explode. I hear Peeta gasp below me. I look down and his eyes are wide, his jaw dropped. He's seen horror. We've seen horror. But nothing like this.

A wail rises from the crowd. The fighting stops. The snow is red and littered with undersized body parts. Countless children lay dead on the ground, but others scream out in agony, bleeding onto the dirty icy street. The Peacekeepers clearly had no idea what was coming as they desperately try to yank down the barricade and let the children out, the parents in.

A flock of white uniforms rushes the scene, red crosses blazing on their chests. Medics. They swarm in among the wounded children, dropping to their knees, swallowing their fear and focusing on the task at hand. I glimpse the long blonde braid running down her back. She yanks off her coat and covers a wailing child, cooing to comfort the babe as she reaches into her medical kit. I notice the ducktail formed by her untucked shirt.

Primrose Everdeen.

I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called her name. For a second, I go limp, my eyes blur. I'm unable to account for the last few seconds.

"Prim!" Gale screams as he sprints forward. He's panicking. Gale leaps over the rubble and grabs the fence, hurling his body over. Prim looks up at him with confusion in her eyes.

"Gale, what are you doing?" Prim asks as he scoops her up into his arms. "Gale! Put me down!" she screeches, reaching back for the baby wrapped in her coat, but he shoves his way through the crowd and starts lifting her over his head, trying to push her over the fence.

"Katniss!" he screams desperately. Peeta and I sprint forward. "Take her! Take her!" he cries in a panic. Prim fights him, trying to work her way back to the bleeding and helpless children below.

I don't know what's going on, but I trust my best friend. I climb the fence, trying to reach Prim from the other side. Peeta hoists me up and my fingers brush my sister's.

"Prim!" I scream, and in an instant everything slows down. I look at Gale through the chain link, tears streaming from his slate gray eyes. I look at my sister, her tiny face overwhelmed with uncertainty. I finally grasp her hand and start heaving her toward the top of the barricade when a bright light flashes and then all I feel is heat. As if in slow motion, Peeta grabs my body and throws me backward. I smash into the ground and he lands on top of me hard. The air is forced from my lungs and I'm gasping. My ribs are broken. My… the horror of what has just occurred sinks in.

Everything is leveled.

Prim is gone.

Gale is gone.

Peeta is on fire, burning on top of me.

The bloody white rose rests in my palm before everything goes black.


	21. Chapter 21 - Silhouette

There's a silhouette of Peeta's body on mine. My skin burned everywhere his body was not on top of me. The only place where my skin is my own is where his was pressed against mine, and now there is a silhouette of him, a ghost on my chest, my stomach, my arms, my legs.

The first two weeks I was confined to a hospital bed. They kept Peeta and me in separate rooms. I don't remember most of it. Haymitch here and there. Strangers. I didn't talk to anyone. When I was allowed up, I went straight to Peeta's room. He's been unconscious since the explosion. For the most part the medical staff lets me stay there, unless something bad happens, and then I'm kicked out and left to worry in a random corridor of the hospital.

I spent hours in the presidential library one night after Peeta had a seizure. I screamed for the doctors and they practically shoved me out of there. I wandered around the hospital for a while, but eventually I ripped the IV antibiotics out of my arm and found myself out on the street walking toward the mansion. The ground of the Capitol is still rubble. The mansion houses rebel leadership now. I have a room there, and a room at the hospital, but mostly I sleep in a chair by Peeta's bed. When I walked in the front door, I had to fight the urge to press myself along the wall, to reach for my bow. The war is over. I don't have anyone left to kill.

The library is filled with books from before the Dark Ages. Books whose pages were forbidden by Panem law. I sat on the rung of a ladder and absorbed text after text, trying not to think about the seizing burned boy in the hospital. I found a book about wars from before we were Panem, when the country that claimed our land went by another name. The top of each page read WWII. A world war. There were people, countries, places across the sea, and they fought with each other just like we do now.

Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

One page brought me to a stop. It was a black and white picture of a wall with the shadow of a man on it, but there was no person there to cast it. My eyes scanned the caption below. _Nuclear shadows._ They had a weapon so powerful, so awful, that the ferocity of the blast left eerie shadows of incinerated people imprinted on pavement, walls, steps. I ran my fingers across my stomach. _Almost like the silhouette that scars my body now._ I shut the book and walked back to the hospital in the rain, sleeping on the floor outside Peeta's room until a nurse finally relented and let me back in.

"Where were you? Where is your IV?" she had asked. I stayed mute. "You aren't well enough to leave the hospital on your own, Miss Everdeen." I'm not Soldier Everdeen anymore.

The people in the hospital aren't from 13, they are from the Capitol. I killed their people and in exchange they sewed some cadaver's skin on mine. When it heals, I'm supposed to have my skin buffed.

"You'll barely be able to tell!" Effie tried to cheer me up. They'll buff Peeta off my skin while he lies in a coma in the bed next to me.

"Leave it," I answered tonelessly.

After a couple weeks, the doctors announce they are going to bring Peeta out of his coma. Haymitch comes and sits in a chair in the corner of the room. I watch as they inject fluid into Peeta's IVs. I watch it drip into his body. I watch expectantly for hours, but he doesn't wake up. Why would he? What's left here worth living for? I reach my hand toward him and one of the nurses quickly tisk-tisks me away. I haven't touched Peeta since we ended up here. I'm not supposed to. Everything about him was too raw, then it was too new. My skin hasn't yet anchored itself either.

But as the hours slip by on the clock, he doesn't stir. The doctors try to mask their trepidation, but I see it in their faces as they review his vitals and stare at his charts with a mix of perplexity and concern. Haymitch watches them silently. I can't tell if he's drunk or sober. I've had enough of this. Finally I just stand up, rip the covers off Peeta's bed and crawl in beside him.

"Don't touch him!" one of the nurses shrieks, but I glare at her and she cowers backward. They are still afraid of me. The back of Peeta's hospital gown is open, his body exposed. His back took the brunt of the fire. It was horrifically marred and where the skin was unsalvageable new pieces were sewn on like a quilt. I lift my tee shirt and press my stomach into his back.

"Peeta," I whisper. My voice feels raw. I've hardly spoken since the explosion. I clear my throat. "Peeta, wake up," I order. His body lies still next to me, his chest rising and falling on its own. He hasn't needed the ventilator in days. "Wake up!" I say, almost too harshly, but he doesn't move. I drop my head on his pillow. His head is still shaved, although it is surrounded by a halo of barely visible hair as it starts to grow back in. There are places where he is too scarred, though, and they remain tight and shiny and bald. I ghost my fingers over the buzzed hair.

He shifts under my touch. Slowly. Barely. But he shifts.

"Peeta?" I blurt out, and the room rushes full of nurses and doctors. "Peeta? Are you awake? Can you talk? Can you say something?" His eyes remain closed, his body as still as he can keep it.

"Ow," he croaks, his voice broken and hoarse.

For the first time since my sister died, since my best friend died, since the war ended… I feel something.

The doctors and nurses hover and swoop, adjusting medications, taking vitals. Peeta winces with each touch, each prod. He's spent years of his life learning to hide pain, but every bit of him hurts now. It's hours before he's left alone to sleep, and then he's competing with monitors beeping and machines whirring in his ear. I'm not sure he even notices he's so drugged out of his mind.

That night I lay with my head on Peeta's bed, my arms tucked under my cheek.

"Katniss?" I hear a voice float through the dark. It is familiar, but when I rub my eyes, the boy it belongs to is sleeping soundly beside me. He hasn't said my name yet, not since he woke up. "Katniss, I'm sorry," it whispers into the black.

It's not Peeta's voice.

I shift my body and find Rye Mellark standing in the doorway. He's sorry. So am I. I just nod and set my head back on the bed. I can't feel that right now. After that, Rye is there most days, spending his time filling out puzzle books in ink on the floor by the window. He scratches at them furiously, constantly writing over wrong answers. He sleeps at the mansion. I don't talk. He doesn't push.

Two days later I'm officially discharged from the hospital. One of the nurses uses a pair of scissors and cuts the plastic hospital band from my wrist. Peeta is still not making sense, his words incoherent and jumbled. They assure me it's normal. I can tell this will be lost time for him. When eight o'clock rolls around, a woman pops her head in Peeta's room and tells me visitor's hours are over. I need to head home now. Home? I don't have a home. I just stare at her.

"You can't stay here anymore, sweetie," she twitters. Sweetie? It's like she's speaking a foreign language. Home. Sweetie. She clearly doesn't know me at all. When I don't move, she becomes sterner. "Come now, Miss Everdeen," she says in a hush, trying not to wake Peeta. "It's time to leave." I pick up Peeta's dinner tray, still heavy with a meal he didn't touch, and hurl it at the woman in the striped uniform. She either wasn't expecting it or has no reflexes. Had she been a refugee on the street a pod would have devoured her. The tray hits her in the stomach, applesauce and milk and mashed potatoes spattering across the floor and painting an ugly picture on her chest. She rushes from the room sobbing. A few minutes later a janitorial crew comes to clean the mess, not saying a word to me. It's the last time anyone asks me to leave Peeta.

I spend most of my time staring at the white wall of Peeta's room while he sleeps or mumbles. When he says my name, it catches me completely off guard. I turn and look at him, his blue eyes trained on mine.

"Katniss?" he rumbles again. I sit up and look back at him. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I don't know how to answer that. We agreed not to lie to each other.

"No," I reply. His eyes are heavy again, but I can tell his fighting the drugs. Trying to stay here with me.

"I didn't think so," he answers. I'd laugh if I could feel anything. He's lying in a hospital bed, skin burned from his body, and he wants to know if I'm okay.

Peeta begins walking a few days after that. I'm almost spiteful of the medicinal capabilities in the Capitol, that they kept this to themselves for so long. If Peeta were burned like that in a mining accident, he'd be dead. Even if he'd been lucky enough to transfer to the hospital in 4, he'd be spending months in bed. Now, after only weeks, he's moving. They inject microorganisms into Peeta's IV that send his skin cells into hyperdrive. Tricks them into thinking he's in an infancy stage, and they split and replicate like he's coming to life for the first time. When they offer to buff his back, Peeta accepts. Not out of vanity. He doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want a reminder. "Take it off," he says quietly.

A few nights later we are in Peeta's room. He's sleeping, moaning quietly as they try to wean him off the morphling. I stay quiet. He hasn't slept in days, the pain too overwhelming. Every time they offered to re-administer the drugs, though, he declined. "I'm tired of everything being fuzzy," he said through gritted teeth. I brought him a sketch pad to help keep his mind off things, and now on a blank page in the back I idly trace my hand with a pencil. I can barely see except by the light of his heart monitor. They keep him hooked up, although Peeta hasn't been triggered since entering the hospital. Commotion outside the door draws my attention, and I set the book down on the side table.

"I want saline and fluids wide open, he's severely dehydrated. Get me a chest x-ray and CT. Are these crush wounds?" a doctor barks as a new patient is wheeled into the hospital. I get out of bed and creep to the door, cracking it open. The fluorescent lights of the hallway are bright and my eyes water as I try to focus.

"Yes, dragged him out of the rubble. He crashed on site, but we were able to revive him. He was in a van with a bunch of guards, but they were all dead. Looks like the vehicle may have hit a pod. I don't know how anyone survived," the emergency worker mutters. "We haven't found a live survivor in at least a week." The man on the cart barely looks alive. I'd think he was just another corpse.

The doctor leans over the patient, shining light into his eyes as the man flinches. He's filthy and unrecognizable. "Hey son, you got a name?" the doctor asks as he taps the bottoms of his bare feet. His toes flex as the man struggles to speak. His face turns bright red but no words come out. It's when I hear him gasp that I know. I step out of my room.

"Get out of here, Miss Everdeen!" one of the doctors snaps at me, eyes fixed on the bruised and dusty man.

"It's Finnick," I breathe, but they can't hear me over the commotion. I raise my voice. "It's Finnick Odair!" I shout. They stop and look down, then the dam breaks.

"We've got a victor here, people. Move! Move! Move!" the lead surgeon orders as they swarm Finnick. A nurse comes up and elbows me back into Peeta's room.

"It will be easier if you just stay in here," he says, and I don't argue. I just look out the tiny window on the door as they wheel my friend away.

I didn't know I had any friends left.

 **A/N: Hey all, I know things are in a darker part of this story, so I wrote an Everlarky one-shot if you want something of a different flavor. If you haven't already, go check out Across the Lawn.**


	22. Chapter 22 - Grief and Stupid Things

I sit cross-legged in a chair, rapping a pencil against the arm, staring at the fat, pale man sitting across from me. Haymitch stands in the corner, scowling. Finnick's wheelchair is parked next to my seat while Peeta is propped up in his hospital bed. Plutarch clears his throat. I'm not sure if he's buying time or genuinely uncomfortable. I'm inclined to think the former. Plutarch doesn't actually care enough about other people to be uncomfortable. It's all eerily similar to our meeting after we were rescued from the Quell, except this time Peeta's here.

"Coin would like you all to make a public appearance as soon as you are able. Katniss, Haymitch, we can schedule you right away. We'll wait until the boys are more…" He pauses for a moment to contemplate the right word. "Presentable."

"Why would I do that?" I ask coldly. "The war effort is over. You don't need a Mockingjay anymore."

"The war effort may be over, but rebuilding is just as important. Ideally, Coin would like to present you with an award. A medal of valor or something. Remind Panem that we are one people," Plutarch explains. Why is he pushing this? Then it clicks. They want me with Coin. I stare up at Haymitch.

"Will Frater be there?" Haymitch asks with a mask of casualness. Plutarch tugs on his vest a little, straightening his posture. Coin wants to remind everyone that the Mockingjay was _her_ weapon. That 13 took down the Capitol. That the rebel leaders marched the districts to victory and now they should be trusted in governance. But there is a small undercurrent, a faction of support for the Nationless. Many refuse to be led by another Snow, but others are still hesitant to throw all their support behind 13. They left us alone, for years. They abandoned the other districts. Leadership points to the outcome of the war as validation, but some of us still feel sour thinking of them sitting back in safety while our children were reaped.

No one really trusts anyone, except for the man or woman fighting beside them in battle.

"Frater Snow will not be present, no," Plutarch markedly answers. His eyes focus on my bouncing hand. "Will you stop that?" he snaps, reaching over and attempting to snatch the pencil from my hand. I flick my wrist back and his hand grasps at empty air. Finnick smirks. I resume tapping the pencil.

"No," I reply.

"Surely you must understand this is of utmost importance. We need to offer a united front. We need Panem to mend, to become one," Plutarch insists, but I just watch the pink eraser bobbing up and down beside me.

"I don't care, Plutarch. I'm not your Mockingjay anymore," I answer quietly. I'm not a Mockingjay. I'm not a victor. I'm not a sister. "I'm not anything anymore," I mutter under my breath. Finnick's eyes flit up to me.

"I'll visit tomorrow. Give you some time to reconsider," he replies with some flourish, as if we had enthusiastically accepted his request. He doesn't bother asking Haymitch. He knows Haymitch is with me. I rise from my seat and exit the hospital room. I can't breathe in there anymore. I walk down a long corridor and find the linen closet I spent an afternoon in once when Peeta was in surgery. I open the door, staring at the stark white sheets before I close it behind me and slip down to the floor.

Prim isn't here. None of this matters. I fall asleep at some point, because when I wake up I can hear wheels on carts pushing dinner to each patient's room.

Plutarch will be back. Someone will be back. Suddenly the hospital feels suffocating. It smells like bleach and blood. I can't be here. Plutarch will know where I am. I can't do this… I can't do any of this right now. I am too broken. There is no point. There is no point.

I push myself to my feet and march out of the hospital toward the mansion. It's the last place they'll think to look for me, even if I am right under their noses. I slip silently down the hall until I find the room I'm supposed to be sleeping in. I open the door and sneak inside. There is a giant bed with a fluffy white comforter. I haven't slept in a bed in weeks. My body aches with misaligned joints and stiff muscles. I catch my reflection in a mirror on the wall. I hardly recognize myself. I turn toward my reflection and let my eyes fall over my body.

I'm too skinny. That's to be expected. I don't feel much like eating. I don't feel much like doing anything. My hair is dry and frays out at the ends. It was burned in the fire. I've never done anything about it. My hands are the most different. Skin that isn't mine. Pale, splotchy. I walk into the bathroom and drop my clothes to the ground. I look myself over. I look like some kind of patchwork freak. Evidence of the fire that destroyed my sister laps my skin, except for Peeta's nuclear shadow. I trace his outline before my hand drops dead at my side.

I open a drawer and find a manicure kit. In it are the tiny little scissors Venia uses when she does my nails. I grab a chunk of my hair and start slicing tiny little bits away. I remember Prim's flaxen hair, long and golden and smooth. I remember her brushing mine, tying it in braids. Snip. Cut. Snip. I remember sitting with my back against a tree with Gale. He grabs my braid and tickles under my chin. Snip. Cut. Singed, black locks drop to the floor. Snip. Cut.

When I finish I stare at myself in the mirror, bits of hair sticking out in all directions, shorn and wrecked.

Good.

I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I watch the night overtake the day. I don't turn on any lights. I don't want anyone to know I'm here. It never really got quiet in the city before. During the Games the streets were alive with celebrations and during the war they were popping with bullets and death. But now, the Capitol is quiet. There are no birds or night noises either. No light. It's just nothing. Just like me.

When I hear a subtle knock on the door, my heart leaps into my throat. They know I'm here. There are probably cameras in my room. Stupid. I tiptoe to the door, peek out the peephole, and see nothing. I feel dizzy. I feel like I'm under attack.

"Katniss?"

Peeta. I open the door and find him kneeling on the floor, panting feverishly. He's drenched in sweat but his skin is freezing. He's still in his paper thin hospital garb even though it's winter outdoors. I drop to the floor.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, pulling him into my room and sealing the door behind him. He drops back against the polished oak door, chest heaving.

"At the moment, trying not to throw up," he pants. He's hoping to elicit a smile. A reaction. Anything. Instead he stares hopelessly at a girl who is dead on the inside. "Katniss, your hair!" His hands shoot to my head, fingers running through the uneven bits left clinging to my scalp. His stare goes from my hair to my eyes. I drop my gaze to the floor. "Kat, what are you doing here?" he asks softly.

"Hiding," I respond, and I see something flash in his eyes. He drops his hands. "Not from you. From Plutarch. From all of them."

"But… Plutarch is here. In the mansion," he responds, not following.

"Last place he'd look, right?" It's meant to be a joke, but my tone stays just as flat as it has been since the explosion. "You shouldn't be here, Peeta. You are too sick still. You need to be in the hospital," I reply, standing.

"I'm not leaving you here," he replies. I don't give him much of a choice. I call Haymitch over, and between the two of us we manage to get Peeta back to his room. He's upset so the nursing staff gives him some sleep syrup and he's out.

"Mind telling me what this is all about, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks, staring at me incredulously.

"I was hiding from Plutarch," I answer, and he scoffs.

"Alright," Haymitch responds sarcastically.

"I was," I answer with no inflection. I'm not fighting with the old man.

"Don't give me that. The girl I know doesn't hide from anything. Besides, you can't be stupid enough to think they didn't notice when you used your phone," he retorts. I know he's right. That was sloppy. I'm always sloppy when it comes to Peeta. I wordlessly turn away from him and walk away. "That kid in there needs you!" he shouts at my back.

I know.

I need me too.

I'm just not here anymore.

I can't give him what he needs.

Finnick is released and moves into the mansion a few days later. He's a wreck. We received word back from 13 that Annie is missing. Refugees in 13 were shipped back to their respective districts shortly after the fall of the Capitol, save those from 12. Annie was recorded boarding a train to 4 at a station in District 11, but she shows up on no further manifests. There have been casualties since the end of the war. The infrastructure is unreliable. Trains breakdown. Plutarch is right, we need to rebuild. Annie should have arrived in 4 two weeks ago.

I curl up at the bottom of the closet. I find a satin white sheet and cocoon myself inside it. I feel numb. I dream about evaporating into this sheet. I dream about turning into smoke and leaking under the crack of the door before dissipating into the air. I dream about becoming sea foam, about washing up on the shore and popping one by one until I don't exist. When the closet door opens, I pull the sheet over my head. I can't do this anymore.

"Hey Kat," a gentle voice whispers and Finnick settles in beside me in the closet. I don't say anything back. I should. He's hurting just as much as I am. Neither of us left for war expecting to lose those we left behind. Those we thought were safe. Somehow, it's like Finnick and I haven't moved in a year. We are exactly where we were when we arrived in 13 – broken shells of human beings.

Being with Finnick is easy. Well, nothing is easy, but being with Finnick is easier than being with anyone else. There are no expectations between us.

"Is your family alive, Finnick?" I ask softly.

"I don't know," he breathes, letting his head drop back and rest against the wall. "We haven't spoken in years." I look at him quizzically. "They were ashamed of who I'd become. Not after my Games. But… after I started spending time in the Capitol. The whole vapid playboy façade. They weren't interested in him as a son."

"But they have to know the truth now," I state, but he just shakes his head and stares at the floor. Some bridges can't be rebuilt.

"Annie was my family. And Mags. And Johanna. They were my family," he answers firmly. So the answer to my question – is your family alive – it's really no. His family is not alive. "How's Peeta?" he asks.

I don't respond. I haven't been to the hospital in days.

"I miss home," he finally says, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

Peeta is eventually moved back to the mansion. I try to stay away from him, but I can't. That night I sneak to his room and pull myself under his sheets. He wraps his arms around me and doesn't ask questions. He rubs a knot in my back and waits for me to finally doze off. Instead I inch my body away from him. I don't deserve to feel good.

The next morning he joins me in my room. We do this dance for days. He watches me carefully, offering comfort that I ignore. One night I wake from a nightmare, peeling my shirt from my body and dropping it to the floor. It's drenched in sweat. I curl myself up and hug my knees. All I see when I close my eyes is explosions. It's all I see when they're open, too.

"Hey, why don't you take a shower?" Peeta asks softly, running his hand over my cheek. I swat it away.

"Stop," I spit out.

"Stop what?" he asks.

"Stop pushing me. I'm not going to get better. Stop trying to make it like things are going to be better," I writhe, so angry I can taste it in my mouth, like blood after you bite your tongue.

"I'm not… well, I am, but…" Peeta takes a breath. "I'm not asking you to forget Prim, Katniss. I'm asking you to not forget about you, too. You deserve better than this."

"I deserve to be left alone," I mutter bitterly.

"Katniss," he says softly, and I feel myself boiling over.

"I am not going to get over this, Peeta. I don't _want_ to get over this, because when it stops hurting so much, then she's just a little farther from me. Then she's really gone." I feel a sob building in my chest. I haven't cried since the war ended. I can't. "I spent our entire Victory Tour, night after night, dreaming about losing them. Killing them because I said something wrong or did something wrong. And after everything, after all of it, Snow still won. Even after I killed him, he still took them away from me! It's my fault, all of it. So stop trying to make me eat and shower and talk and be a person. I don't _want_ any of this. All I want is to sleep and you won't even let me do that!" I scream, pulling at my hair. My chest aches. I get out of bed and pace. I'm being irrational.

"Kat," he breathes, sliding his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Get out," I rumble, fire and rage churning beneath the surface.

"I can't," Peeta exhales. "Katniss…"

"GET OUT!" I scream at the top of my lungs, but he steps forward, wraps his arms around me, and squeezes me so hard I feel like I'm melting. "Please just go," I manage, and then I release a sob that is so visceral I feel it in the walls. I choke, finally letting it overtake me. Peeta and I slide to the floor; he rocks me as I cry unrestrained into his chest. We stay that way for at least an hour, a tangled mess of hurt on the floor of my room. My chest finally stills. I feel empty in my heart, like something I was holding on to escaped. Like a little bit of Prim just slipped away from me. A part of her I will never get back.

"Get out," I say with such a quiet anger that Peeta's body stiffens at my tone. I get up from the floor, walk to the bathroom, and slam the door so loudly I'm certain it was heard everywhere in the mansion.

After a while I hear my door creak open and close. I peek out of the bathroom. I'm finally alone.

The next day I wander the mansion alone until I find myself standing in front of a wall full of holes. I lose my breath. Are they still back there? Hanging? I step forward, as if to look through one of the holes, but then my feet panic and shoot me away from the tomb. I sprint down the hall and pull open a door, slamming it shut behind me.

I'm in a large room. I don't even know what this room is for. So much of the mansion is useless. There is a long, polished mahogany table that runs at least thirty feet. Business meetings? Dinners? I don't know. I walk along the wall and drag my hand along some nameless piece of furniture with doors and a flat top. It's sheened so bright I can see my refection staring back at me like a mirror. I don't look like myself. I don't look like anyone. I'm sure the cabinet stores something – china, cables… something. On the top of the unit sits a large crystal bowl with decorative knickknacks. My eyes stop.

I reach out and gently run my fingers over the large shell. A word comes in my head, though I don't know where from. Conch. It's a conch shell. The outside is a matted milky white, and as it curls inward it shines rosy pink. I pick it up. It's heavy and takes up my entire palm.

I turn and I run from the room. My legs burn. I'm not used to moving so fast, but I need to find him. I dart to the utility stairwell and race the stairs two at a time. When I reach his door, I don't even knock, I just open it and let myself inside.

Finnick is sitting cross-legged on his bed. Peeta is on the floor, his back pressed against the wall. They both sit up in attention when I bolt in.

"Hey," Finnick offers a weak smile.

"Hey," I pant, my chest heaving. I drop onto his bed. My feet are stabbing me like tiny pins and needles, like they've fallen asleep. I feel Peeta's eyes on me, but I ignore him. "You miss home," I whisper to Finnick, holding up the conch shell. The muscles in my arm burn but I ignore it. Finnick looks at me with confusion, and I lift the shell up and put it next to his ear.

Inside the shell, he hears the waves crash. The wind over water. He hears the ocean. A smile creeps across his face as a tear slides down his cheek.

"Katniss," he breathes in gratitude.

I look over at Peeta and we lock eyes.

"I'm sorry," I mouth.

"Me too," he says silently back.

Finnick drops his head in my lap, the conch shells still pressed against his ear. I run my hand up and down his arm, my eyes still on the boy on the floor. I didn't mean to run. Grief makes you do stupid things.

I'm done running. I'm never running from him again.

"I love you," I say softly. Finnick stops and looks up at me. I've never said that, not in front of him. I don't say things like that in front of anyone.

"I love you too," Peeta replies.


	23. Chapter 23 - Fierce

"Coin will fill the role of Acting President until an official election can be called. We expect that to be within a year and to be based on the stability of the state," Plutarch states. We sit in the large room with the giant table. My eyes dart to Haymitch, who just stares silently, chewing the inside of his cheek. The surviving victors are included in the meeting. Beetee sits pensively, cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt. Enobaria looks bored out of her mind.

I stare at the row of empty seats and imagine the others. Johanna would probably roll her eyes. Maybe carve her initials in the pristinely glossy table with a paperclip or something. Lyme would be hard to read. She always was. Annie would probably sing to herself instead of pay attention, braiding the ends of her hair into complicated knots. I picture Mags garbling on loudly to Finnick as if she was woefully unaware a meeting was taking place, even though she'd know exactly what she was doing. I imagine Cashmere playfully picking her nose like she said she would for the Gamemakers. That's how I prefer to remember her, rather than with Johanna's axe protruding from her chest.

"Acting President. So what does that mean, exactly?" Haymitch asks. Coin leans forward in her seat, but it is Plutarch that answers.

"She will have all the roles and responsibilities held by the President. She will appoint a cabinet of advisors and lead the people in all matters until a Congress can be seated, and then there will be a share of powers between the elected President and the elected representatives in Congress," Plutarch explains.

"So… until the Congress is seated, and until a Presidential election is held, where are the checks on her power?" Haymitch leads.

"Well, the Cabinet members will acts in an advising role," Fulvia explains.

"The Cabinet members that she appoints. Without any approval from anybody," Haymitch adds.

"Once Congress is in session, they will have confirmation oversight regarding Cabinet appointees," Plutarch insists, starting to lose his patience. The miscellaneous government officials included in the meeting whisper amongst themselves. I recognize most of them from our summits in 13. These are the military minds of 13 coopted to fill powerful government roles. It's not who would be best for Panem. It's who Coin trusts.

"I think what Mr. Abernathy is so poorly trying to explain is that the people might be more comfortable if not every member of Acting leadership came from District Thirteen. Surely there are members of the rebellion from other districts that can be utilized to assuage the unease of the people," Beetee inserts himself into the conversation.

"Are you fishing for a job, Beetee?" Plutarch asks with more earnest than I expected.

"No, certainly not!" Beetee responds, flustered at the proposition.

"Most of those people are dead," Coin says with little inflection in her voice. "Commander Lyme is deceased and cannot fulfill a role here, as much as we had hoped for she would have a future within the administration."

I look around the table. Haymitch was an integral part of the war effort, but no one is looking for a drunk to have any kind of governing responsibility. Not that he'd want it anyway. Finnick has no interest in being a toy for the Capitol anymore, regardless of who is in control. Chaff is dead. Gale, as much as he'd want it, is dead.

"Paylor," I state, clearing my throat. She can't have been unintentionally overlooked. Why haven't they brought her up?

"It's unlikely Commander Paylor is interested in anything other than rebuilding her own district," Coin responds quickly. Convenient.

"Ask her," I retort.

"We aren't asking for your approval. We are telling you because we believe the victors are an ambassador for the people. If you support the Acting government, the districts will be more likely to…"

"Fall in line?" I interrupt Plutarch.

"Work together, Miss Everdeen," he replies sharply.

"While I appreciate your grievances, Panem needs you to back this administration," Coin stares directly at me, her voice cutting the air like the whip of one of Gale's traps snapping shut. "You cannot let this obsession with your own personal loss blind you to the bigger picture. Otherwise all you are is another pathetic victim that can't see beyond themselves to help others."

She's playing the game we've always played. She's recklessly stoking a fire, waiting for an outburst. Except now I can't. I can't feel anything. I just stand up from the meeting and walk out of the door. I hear Peeta's footsteps, but I don't wait for him before I open the door of the nearest closet and slam it closed behind me. I slide to the floor, lights off. I could be a broom, or a mop, or a spare light bulb. I want to be anything but me. The door creaks open and Peeta steps inside with Finnick close behind.

"Hey," Peeta says lightly as he sits beside me.

"Hey," I say back, my voice gruffer than I mean it to be. We're quiet for a long time. I hear Coin over and over again in my head. Victim. Victim. Being a victim implies that I'm weak. It tastes like copper in my mouth. Finnick drops his head on my shoulder. Sometimes it's like he can hear my thoughts. We're so similar it's eerie.

"Being a victim isn't who you are, Katniss," Finnick starts. Even the word makes me recoil a bit. I wholly reject that term. When they forced me to sit with Dr. Aurelius, he just repeated over and over that I'm not a victim, I'm a survivor. He was like a drone, like a record stuck on some loop.

"I don't know if the word _victim_ is such a bad thing. Recognizing suffering is not giving up. It's not weak," Finnick adds. "Everyone has their own way of coping, of dealing, of surviving. But after everything we've been through… I feel like a victim. I don't think it's bad to admit it. I can admit that I suffered. That I'm still suffering. I think I've given them enough. I don't want to be inspiring anymore, I don't want to lead. I just want to heal. And it's bullshit that they make us feel obligated to do anything more than that." Finnick takes a breath.

I think about Finnick's journey. What happened to him in the Capitol. What those perverted adults did when he was only a boy, when he was barely a man. Maybe some people heal by rejecting the word _victim_ , but in a world that doesn't readily accept what was done to Finnick was wrong, that thinks he was asking for it by the way he dressed or the jewels stuffed in his pockets… If they admit Finnick is a victim, then they have to admit what they did to him wasn't right. He's forcing them to own up to it. He's making them accountable.

"I think Coin chose that word to make you feel weak," Peeta says quietly. "Victim defines what _happened_ to you, not what you are, Katniss. You own what happened, not her. _You_ own that word. You own victim. And you own survivor, too. And if you don't want to tow her line, it's not because you're weak and selfish. It's because you're still strong and you're still defiant, despite what happened. And it scares her."

"I don't think the Mockingjay is done yet," I answer with fire in my belly. I finally feel something.

Anger.

"Me either," Peeta replies.

We decide to walk outside. Winter is coming to an end, and while it's not freezing anymore, the three of us are bundled to the hilt. Peeta and I have new, virgin skin that doesn't take well to cold, and Finnick is still uncomfortably skinny from his time in the rubble. We tug scarves over our faces and leave the square. We don't care. We just need to be out of the mansion, out of the hospital, out.

We try to avoid places tainted by the war and end up near the train station. I watch cars come and go and think of all the times I was carted to my death, or what should have been my death. Instead, I'm here and alive and breathing. The girl I sacrificed myself for is gone. I breathe in slowly. My ribs still hurt from where they were broken in the blast. Shallow breaths.

We sit on a bench and pretend we are choosing a destination. We've each done a Victory Tour, we've seen the country. We talk about where we could live, where we could go, if we weren't here.

"I think I'd go to Seven," I say thoughtfully. I could lose myself in those woods. I could leave this behind me.

"I was hoping maybe you two would come home with me…"Finnick states wistfully. I don't think he's kidding. I look to his face and his stares at the ground bashfully. I weave my hand in his, resting my chin on his shoulder and looking at Peeta. I wonder what our life might be like if the waves hammering on the shore could drown our thoughts. If Peeta could finally find peace from the ugly voices in his mind. If my memories would finally forgive me.

"I'm sure you want to go with your mom, though," Finnick says softly. "I'd understand if –"

"No," I interrupt Finnick.

I can't see her. Peeta bites his tongue. He wants me to call my mom, to talk to her. I can't do that. I have never wanted and not wanted my mother so badly at the same time. I want her here, taking care of me, grieving with me. For once, I just want her to be my mom. But if she can't do that, then I don't want her at all.

"Maybe you could come with us?" I ask, squeezing Finnick's fingers tight in mine. None of us have been cleared for travel. I think they are using our health as an excuse to keep us here. They want us to stay, to play their game. We're in a prison the size of a city.

The next train screeches to a halt and we watch another hundred people unload from the cars, each carrying bags and parcels. The crowd disperses, the passengers knowing the way to their next destination. A tiny woman walks up to a map on the wall, studying the curves and turns of the winding streets. She clears her throat and I feel everything in Finnick's body spark. His eyes grow wide.

"Are you okay?" I ask, but when I look, Peeta's staring too. He knows this woman. He knows the sound of her breath catching in her throat.

"Annie?" Finnick barely whispers. I look at the woman. She's practically a girl – tiny frame, tiny hands, tiny face. Her hair is tucked up in a hat, little wisps of red escaping and curling down her neck. "Annie!" Finnick cries out, and the woman's head shoots in our direction.

"Finnick!" she cries out, a smile breaking out over her face. He bolts up from the bench and sprints across the platform. I expect her to leap into his arms, for him to sweep her off her feet, but as Finnick nears Annie he comes to a screeching halt.

"Are you…?" he asks. I don't understand his tone until my eyes drop down to witness Annie's swollen belly. She beams at him.

"They said you were missing. I wanted to come look for you and they said I couldn't come. That I had to go back to Four. But I would know if you were dead. I would know. I knew you were here, and trapped. I knew. And so I snuck off in Eleven, but it took forever to get here," she rambles, but Finnick hasn't heard a word since he saw her stomach. His eyes are glistening, his smile so wide I think he might break his cheeks.

"Are we having a baby?" he finally chokes out.

"Yeah," she sniffles between the hiccups of ugly crying, her head bobbing up and down. Finnick wraps himself around her. She practically disappears in his embrace. He rocks from side to side, swinging her body with his. I look over my shoulder and Peeta is grinning. Annie props her chin on Finnick's shoulder, looking at the two of us through happy tears.

"Katniss, your hair!" Annie gasps, and we all start laughing. Happiness. Relief. I don't know how to process any of it.

That night we all camp out in my room. I sit between Annie's knees as she pulls bits of hair between her fingers and snips away the uneven pieces with the metallic swish-swish of a pair of shears.

"It's going to be really short," she says as if apologizing.

"It's fine," I say, watching the bits of black drop in front of my face.

"I like it," Annie states. I watch her in the mirror but she keeps her eyes on her work. "I think you look fierce."

Good.

I'm going to need fierce.


	24. Chapter 24 - A Fickle Beast

"I like it," he says softly across the pillow. I can tell he wants to run his hands over my hair. We don't really touch anymore, not since that night in my room. But we don't want to be away from each other either. Our two heads share one pillow, our faces inches apart. His eyes sweep over my head. "It's a little dark, though."

"Yeah, the black from Portia's dye will grow out eventually," I whisper. His hair is so light I can barely see that's it's started to grow back in.

"I think we look like a couple of old men," Peeta offers, and I burst out a bark of laughter. My eyes open wide and I clasp my hand over my mouth.

"Shhh, you're going to wake up Annie!" Peeta chuckles, staring up at the bed. Annie and Finnick stayed the night. Peeta and I insisted on the floor, especially with Annie in the state she's in. My face burns red in guilt. I shouldn't be laughing right now. I shouldn't let Peeta in; let him make me feel better. I don't deserve to feel better. I don't want to feel better.

"It's okay to have a happy moment, Katniss," Peeta whispers. I roll on my back and face the ceiling. He lets me stew in silence for a few minutes. I feel him shift on his side and prop his head up on his arm.

"When I found out my family died, I didn't talk for days. I tried to convince myself they were lying to me, but somewhere in my gut I knew they weren't," Peeta says in a hush. _They_ is how he refers to the guards, the tormenters, the ones who tortured them. _They_. "I balled up in the corner of my cell. Didn't eat, didn't sleep. I didn't even breathe, not really. Even when they um…" Peeta gulps. "Even when they were hurting me, I didn't scream. I just… I had no voice."

"Then one night, they came while we were sleeping and took Johanna. Normally the nights were the only break we got, but every night that week they'd come and take her. The last night, they threw her back in her cell and left us in the dark. I hadn't spoken since finding out about the firebombings in Twelve, but I crawled to the bars and leaned toward Jo's cell. I asked her if she was okay. She pressed her forehead against the bars and said, 'If you were to jump off the roof of the Tribute Center, what do you think the last thing to go through your head would be?' I was silent, thinking about you, and my family, and everyone I'd known who probably burned to death in Twelve. Finally I said, 'I'd wonder if I did enough.' She was quiet for a while. And then I asked, 'What do you think the last thing through your head would be?' And Jo goes, 'My ankles.'"

The snicker is quiet at first. It's just in my throat, and I try to swallow it, but then it escapes I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Peeta grins. "That was my reaction, too," he smiles. I start snorting I'm so beyond control. Annie and Finnick wake up and look down at me, lying on my back, facing the ceiling; laughing with tears are rolling down my cheeks.

"What's so funny?" Finnick asks.

"I told her the ankle story," Peeta tells Annie, who starts giggling.

"What? What!" Finnick keeps asking, but the three of us just laugh until we're too tired for nightmares anymore.

The next morning we head to the mess to eat. Unlike 13, where there were a number of families, the Presidential Palace is brimming with men and women in uniform, various aides in suits and ties; everyone with somewhere to be, something to do. I grab a tray and fill my plate with fruit. We find a table in a corner and when my eyes drift to Annie's plate I can't help but smile. It's overflowing with food. Finnick has a second plate perched on his arm and he drops next to Annie and tries to slide it on her tray.

"I can't possibly eat all this!" Annie swats at him playfully. I think of the starving mothers on my mother's kitchen table, their wombs distended and their ribs and shoulder blades protruding from ashen skin. Annie glows. This is different. Life after the war is different. Peeta steals a chunk of pineapple from Annie's plate and Finnick glares at him, although he can't hold the scowl for more than a second or two.

"Soldier Everdeen," a voice from behind me beckons. I cringe at the words. I haven't been called soldier since before the hospital, but old habits die hard for the rigid people raised in District 13. I turn around and find a tall man standing over me. His back is straight, as is his gray hair, his moustache, and every other detail about him. "Soldier Everdeen, you are requested in the Summit Room."

"I'm eating," I say, turning back to my plate and popping a large piece of orange in my mouth.

"At your earliest convenience," he states. I'm not sure if that's a question. Is he looking for a response out of me? I don't give him one, snapping an apple wedge with my teeth. "Alright then. We'll see you within the hour." The man walks away and I follow the sound of his clicking shoes until I lose it to the din of the cafeteria. I stand up, taking the bowl of fruit with me and leaving the tray sticky and uncared for on the table. I walk up to the food line, grab a sticky bun, and turn to leave. I hear Peeta's footsteps catch up to me.

"Do you want me to go with you?" he asks, trying to mask his concern.

"Oh, I'm not going to that stupid meeting," I answer, continuing my pace.

"Where are you going then?" he asks, a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

"I need some mentoring," I answer.

Haymitch's quarters on the other side of the mansion. Effie moved back into her apartment a week ago, and since then he's locked himself in his room.

"Haymitch, open up!" I yell as I kick at the base of the door with my foot.

"Go away, Mockingjay!" he shouts back, his voice gravelly. Peeta flinches just slightly. Haymitch opens the door and spies the two of us. "Sorry. I should have assumed the kid was with you. Come in, _Katniss_ ," he says with a sarcastic tone and a sweeping arm gesture. He follows us inside, takes the sticky bun from my hand, and plops himself on a couch. "What can I help you with, sweetheart?" he asks sloppily through a mouthful of food.

"Coin wants to hold some award ceremony for me," I state, clearly less than thrilled with the idea.

"Can't be for your shining personality," Haymitch replies, sucking sugar off his thumb.

"For killing Snow," I answer. He nods, but he already knew that.

"And?" he asks.

"I don't want to do it," I reply. He nods again.

"Look, sweetheart. The Games are over. The War is over. I'm not your mentor anymore. You're a grown girl. You make your own decisions," he states, getting up from the couch and walking away from me. He pours a glass of water from the sink, and I can barely hear him mumble over the sound of the faucet, "You have been for a long time now."

I wish Prim were here. Prim with her wise-beyond-her-years advice. With her tiny fingers that she could run through my hair, if I had any left to speak of. I suddenly feel very small, the air feels very hot. How am I supposed to live in a world that she's not part of? How am I supposed to breathe? And they want to give me an award?

Grief is a fickle beast. For a moment you feel normal, and then it creeps up on you and steals the smile from your lips, the air from the room. You wake up, and for a few seconds things feel ordinary, and then you remember. And you can't swallow. You can't tell if you want to go back to sleep or set fire to your bed and the nightmares it nurses.

"I don't deserve an award," I say in a low, rumbling voice. "I didn't do anything worth it. I didn't do anything better than anyone else out there."

"You killed Snow," Haymitch replies. "That means something, sweetheart. To a lot of people."

"I couldn't have killed him if a war weren't raging at his front door. Every single person that fought in that square, that died in that square… They are just as responsible as I am. I don't see anyone flashing any stupid awards at them!" I retort. I don't know where this anger is coming from, where it's directed. I'm a spark.

"Katniss, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Peeta replies, reaching his hand to rub my back. He's not supposed to touch me. He can't touch me. I swat it away.

"And you!" I feel my stomach burning with fury. "This is your fault! You should have let me die out there! You pulled me away from her. You let her burn and made me live. You made me live with it!"

"Katniss," Peeta whispers, his voice marred with pain and empathy. I don't want it.

"I had her! I had her fingertips! I just needed one more second!" I cry. "I touched her!" I drop to my knees, a sob overtakes my body but I swallow it hard. "I don't want an award!" I barely manage to get out between hitched breaths. "I don't want an award!"

"What do you want, Katniss?" Peeta whispers. I want Prim. I want all of this to be over.

"I want my mom," I say, my voice so small I don't even recognize it.

But my mom isn't coming. Not to the place where Prim died. Not to the daughter that got left behind. The wrong daughter. The one that looks like the husband she buried, that loved the daughter she lost. Prim evaporated into nothing in a burst of furious flame. It turns out she was the real girl on fire.

Haymitch pours a cup of coffee and gently slides it into my hands. It's warm and the heat makes my dull fingers tingle. He groans as he sits down on the floor. "I don't have the knees for this anymore," he mumbles under his breath before he finally settles in front of me.

"The kid's right. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But if you want to get close to Coin, if you want to keep an eye on her… If you want to be the check on her power that the rest of them don't think she needs, then you need to play along." Haymitch runs his hands through his greasy hair, tugging it slightly. "It's another set of Games, sweetheart."

Coin has miscalculated. Maybe she's used to governing. She's used to war.

But I know Games.

I know how to play.


	25. Chapter 25 - Cruelty & Barbarism

I think Flavius might cry.

"A wig maybe?" he frets, running his fingertips over what remains of my hair. He snips a few places with his shears, evening out what Annie could not. "Let me see if I can find you a wig."

"No, we should leave it," I say.

"But Katniss, I want to make you look your best!" Flavius flitters, desperately looking back and forth between me and Octavia and Venia.

"I know, but…" I try to find the words. "I'm not my best."

They strap me into what looks like my Mockingjay uniform. It's not what Cinna made me, it's a replica. It will probably be in a museum someday, Octavia said. My real Mockingjay uniform burned along with my body. They had to peel it off me, taking large strips of my skin with it. I wonder if they'll lay that out in a museum too. A pile of burnt, melted skin wrapped in synthetic armor with a little plaque in front of it – _What's Left of the Girl on Fire_.

There's a soft knock on the door. Peeta peeks his head inside.

"Are you ready? Haymitch is almost done his introduction," he asks, not completely pulling his body inside.

"Peeta! Let me look at you!" Octavia tweets, grabbing him by the jacket and dragging him into the room. Venia and Octavia flit around him, straightening this and tidying that. Venia pours some goop in her hands and rubs it over his face. His tone visibly evens between the burns and his real skin. She turns to me with the putty but I shake my head and turn away.

"We should go," I state, grabbing my bow and empty quiver and swinging both over my shoulder. Peeta follows me out the door, but once in the hallway I stop suddenly and lean back in. "Thank you," I offer, and the three stylists wave me away.

Peeta tries to keep the pace up, but I'm dragging my feet. The temporary prep area was set up a few hundred feet from the stage, toward the mansion and away from the crowds. I could hear them clapping and cheering from the changing room.

"How's the speech going?" I ask.

"Good. He's said everything he said he would," Peeta replies.

"Is Finnick there?" I ask. A little smile spreads across Peeta's face, but he tries to hide it.

"No. He told Coin she could, um…" His voice trails off, his face flushing red.

"What?" I ask, grabbing his shoulder. At my touch his eyes dart up to mine, sparking with surprise. "Sorry," I say, dropping my hand away.

"He told Coin to suck it. His words," Peeta says. His gaze drops to my hand. "I liked that," he whispers and my stomach flips in a way it hasn't since we were backstage on our Tour. I should say something, I should step forward. I take a breath.

"There you are!" I hear a voice trill from ahead and I see Effie Trinket fluttering toward us. Effie looks different. She's certainly thrilled to be out of the gray uniform of District 13, but she's not quite as clownish as she used to be. Her make-up would be garish on me, but it is subtle for Effie. I can see her real face peeking out from behind the powder. "Come children! Move along! The stairs to the stage are this way!"

As we climb the steps, Haymitch is making his way down. He gives me a thumbs up. Good. At least something is going the way we planned. When Peeta and I reach the stage, the sound of the crowd is overwhelming. I don't know where all these people came from. Soldiers and rebels that were well enough to travel were sent back to their home districts. Certainly the people of the Capitol wouldn't cheer for their President's executioner like this. As I scan the crowd, though, the faces are those of Capitolite and rebel alike. Skin darkened by hours in the fields, laboring and working. Eyes weary and aged by years of hunger. Faces, powdered and white and painted and relieved. Hair kinked and curled with the salt of the sea. All mixed together, everyone mixed together.

I close my eyes and for a second I'm in the woods with Gale. It's autumn. The leaves of the trees have abandoned the branches and coated the ground in a blanket of reds and oranges and yellows.

 _"It's funny," Gale says, as we lie on our backs and look up at the tall, naked branches above us._

 _"What is?" I ask, focusing on peeling a leaf away from its stem without ripping it._

 _"Up there, in the trees, they are all separate and different. The bright yellow birch, the red maple. Up there, they keep to themselves. But down here, on the earth, they are all just leaves. It doesn't matter which tree they came from. It doesn't matter if this one is skinny and pale, and this one is fat and bright. In the end, they all look better together than they did apart," he says reflectively._

 _"Things probably look different down here than up there," I reply back. I turn my head and watch Gale, his eyes scanning the forest floor. He gathers a huge handful of leaves and hurls them at my face. There's a smell to dying leaves that makes me feel like I'm home. That makes me feel new. That makes me feel like I'll live forever in these woods with Gale. Like we'll always be this young._

Sometimes Gale wasn't angry. Sometimes he was just my friend.

A rock forms in my throat and I wonder how I'll do this speech. I look over and find Peeta's eyes already on me, studying my face.

"You ready?" he mouths. I nod slowly.

I've missed Coin's speech. I have no idea what she said. I tune in to hear her extoling the Mockingjay. She sweeps her hand back toward me. I take it as my cue and step forward to the podium. The crowd cheers until they have no strength left in their lungs. I don't know if I'm smiling, but I think maybe I just look at peace for a moment.

Prim would be happy here.

When a silence finally falls on the crowd, I clear my throat. I think I'll sound tiny compared to the cry of the throng, but my voice booms over the crowd through stadium speakers. I take a step back.

"People of Panem!" I speak out, and they take off cheering again. I wait until the sounds fade, but my legs shake beneath me. I wonder if anyone notices. "For the first time, I think I really mean that. We are the people of Panem! All of us!" The crowd erupts again, screaming until their throats are raw and fatigued. "I know I am here to accept an award. I know you are here to honor what I did. The only promise President Snow and I ever made was that we would not lie to one another. I am going to keep that promise with you now." I take a deep breath. _Say what you mean._ "I don't deserve an award for what I did. Snow was a tyrant, and a murderer, and he took everything from us. He was the villain in all of our stories. It's not about what he did to me, or Peeta, or any one of us. It's about what he did to _all_ of us. And so was his end. I didn't end this war alone. It came from _all_ of us. _We_ ended this war." The crowd explodes in cheers. People grab hands and hold one another. They hold strangers and family and friends. They are the fabric of our country. "War isn't something we glorify. It doesn't discriminate in who it takes from us. It doesn't matter how important they are to you. Just like Snow, War took from us. And now it's over. And now we are finally free."

I close my eyes. This is the part Peeta wrote. The part we stayed up all night practicing. "What does freedom mean? Freedom means thinking for yourself. It means taking joy in the things you love. It means providing for your family and finding pride in your work. It means hot days and cold nights. It means finding out what lies beyond the walls of our districts. It means exploring, growing, and putting down roots. But more than that, freedom means choice. For once, we finally get to choose. Choose to stay. Choose to go. Choose who we love. What we do. And who leads us." I stare at Coin. I make no attempt at subtlety. I turn back to the people. "You. You are the dreamers, and the seekers, and the leaders of our nation. All of you. So it's time to step forward. It's time to lead. It's time to choose. Because the same truth that ended the war is the truth that will build this country. It's not about one person. It's about all of us."

I step back from the microphone while the crowd is still screaming. I stare directly at Coin. She keeps her face flat, but underneath I can see that she is boiling with fury. She raises her hands to the crowd. Those from District 13 and the Capitol fall immediately silent, while the rest murmur energetically. They aren't ready to submit.

"Our last announcement. There were many lost in the War, but not all those who ran into battle were armed with a weapon. In honor of the medics we lost and the children they were trying to save, we are erecting a new medical facility. Directly behind where your feet stand today will be the future site of the Primrose Everdeen Children's Hospital. We will memorialize those who President Snow took from us in his final act of cruelty and barbarism," Coin speaks. The crowd applauds loudly, people occasionally craning their necks to look over their shoulders at the pile of rubble which will one day heal the smallest of us all. My eyes burn, and I turn my face quickly before I give Coin anything else. As I stare at the floor of the stage, though, my head is overwhelmed.

The bomb.

The bomb.

Snow's final act of cruelty and barbarism, Coin said.

Snow was dead. He knew the war was over. His only concern, even in the end, was self-preservation. If he had another hovercraft, he wouldn't have used it for some spiteful last strike. He would have used it to escape. He was calculating. It wasn't in his nature to act out on his emotions. He didn't kill people for fun. It always had a point. He _always_ had a point, a specific reason. The Games weren't for fun, they were perfectly calculated to subdue the districts and cement a sense of superiority in the Capitol. To alienate us from one another. He would have called an act like the bombing wasteful. Unnecessary. The game was already over. Those were his words. _Anyone can see the game is over._

Snow killed for a reason.

And he had no reason to kill those children.

I feel like I'm choking. I think back to his words on the roof.

Neither of us, not me, not Snow… Neither of us were watching _her_.

I look at Coin as she soaks in the praise of the people. My mind flashes again, not to the roof this time, but to the ground. Gale sprinting toward Prim like he knew what was coming.

Like he knew.

I remember, and it feels so perverted in my mind I try to shove the thought out, but it flows over me. Beetee and Gale discussing weapons. Playing against their victims natural instincts. The two-wave bomb.

 _We're just playing by the same rulebook Snow used when he took Peeta._

I can't. I can't. But I see Gale's slate gray eyes locking with mine through the fence, brimming with despair, throwing Prim with everything he had left in him.

He knew.

And now I do too.

This final act of cruelty and barbarism.

It wasn't Snow.

It wasn't Snow.

It was Gale.

It was Beetee.

It was _Coin_.


	26. Chapter 26 - Not Alone

The following day we are called into another meeting in the Summit. I find my seat at the long mahogany table. I look down and notice Peeta and I aren't the only invitees. The other victors are there as well – Enobaria, Finnick, Annie, Haymitch, Beetee. There's a man from District 1 I don't recognize. He's hovering near Enobaria, his body tense as if waiting for something to happen. I know that feeling. As I stare at him, though, recognition pushes itself to the forefront of my thoughts. Augustus Braughn - the favorite son of Panem. He won the Games a few years before Finnick. He never even moved back to his district, he just stayed in the Capitol and lavished in luxury. Or at least that's what we all thought.

How did he survive the purge?

Plutarch told us that following the outbreak of the rebellion a purge took place across Panem. Victors were executed or assassinated, kidnapped or left hanging from trees. Most were killed by the Capitol, although the rebellion wasn't innocent either - eradicating who they thought might be a Capitol spy. The Capitol called it a liquidation.

Perched on a window sill sits a bony woman with shrewd eyes. She's older than Haymitch, probably sixty. She's tall but her back hunches over just slightly. She watches us carefully in total silence. She doesn't have a name or a district that I recall. Her hair must have been midnight black at one time, but streaks of gray breakthrough now like the blaze of a dying space rock plummeting to Earth through the night sky.

There were fifty-nine living Victors in the Quarter Quell reaping pool. There are only nine of us left alive. Nine.

I look over at Beetee. He sits, fidgeting with his glasses. My stomach burns as I watch at him. He designed the weapon that caused my sister's death. I feel bile eating at the back of my throat. I can't even look at him. Instead, I stare at my warped reflection in the polished finish.

"What is this?" I ask the table.

"We're not sure," Haymitch answers. "It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors."

"What's she doing here?" Annie asks, her eyes wide on Enobaria. She saw the Quell. She knows Enobaria tried to kill us.

"She's protected under what's come to be called the Mockingjay Deal," Coin says as she enters the room from behind me. I turn in my chair. "Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for the captured victors immunity."

"She wasn't down there with them," Haymitch states as Peeta shifts protectively nearer to me.

"It doesn't matter," Coin says dismissively. "Enobaria remains in the protection of the government, as do the other remaining victors." She stands at the head of the table and clears her throat. The murmurs between victors stop and all eyes move to her sharp face, her angular hair, her silver eyes.

"The reason I've called you all here today is to settle a debate. Today we begin executing war criminals from the Capitol – generals, Gamemakers, the like. The fault did not fall entirely on Snow. There were hundreds of accomplices in the oppression of Panem. However, the suffering in the districts was so extreme that these measures seem insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship," Coin states.

I stare at her with disbelieving eyes. I saw them, just days ago, in the City Circle. Capitolites and rebels alike, blurring into one nation. This call for genocide is not coming from the people. I remember the refugees in the City Square, hiding me from the pod-filled streets, pressing three fingers to their lips. I remember the Capitol woman rushing us into her home to escape the black tar, only to make her closet her grave.

"However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this," Coin adds, almost with a hint of disappointment. It makes my blood cold in my veins. "So, an alternative has been placed on the table. In lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using children directly related to those who held the most power."

"Are you joking?" asks Peeta, his jaw hanging open.

"No. I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will widely be known it was done with your approval, although the individual vote breakdown with be made private for your own security," Coin includes.

"Was this Plutarch's idea?" Haymitch asks, his hands twisting in his lap.

"It was a joint proposal from the Presidential Council, but it was offered based on the popular will of the people," Coin states.

"I don't believe you," I finally manage to spit words out.

"They are thirsty for vengeance," Coin snips back. "It's what they want."

"But it's not what they need. A leader would show them that, would find a better way," I retort.

"Weren't you just out there in front of them, telling _them_ to choose, _them_ to lead? This is what they want, Miss Everdeen. Maybe the people aren't as trustworthy as you think," she says, a hint of smugness almost sneaking through, but her cold exterior prevailing.

"They didn't come up with this on their own. You suggested it. You and your _council_ ," I writhe.

"In a time of uncertainty, you need to build bridges, not barriers. We need to dissolve the things that divide us, and that includes decisions made based on where we were born," Peeta argues, ever the wordsmith. He's coming back, little by little.

Coin acts as if she doesn't hear him. "There is no assembled Congress to represent the people in this decision. In order to give the Districts a voice, as the Mockingjay put it, I am declaring that the decision will be left squarely with the living Victors. The outcome of the vote does not need to be unanimous. A simple majority rules," Coin instructs, as if she were a teacher and not a dictator.

"I vote yes," Enobaria states, a smirk in the corner of her mouth. "Snow has a granddaughter, after all."

Oh. _Oh._ This is not just an attempt to heal wounds, as Coin presents it. This is a shot at the Nationless. She is reminding Frater who is in power. Who has control. And she will take his niece to do it.

"You have the evening to discuss and think it over. You are to report back at seven tomorrow morning for a formal vote," Coin concludes, dismissing us without saying so. We rise and float into the hallway. Beetee seems shaken and wheels himself away from us without any real acknowledgement. He doesn't think with an audience. Haymitch, Finnick, Annie, Peeta and I stand silently, trying to process what just happened.

"I don't understand," I say, watching as Enobaria and Augustus strut down the marble hallway, growing smaller with distance. "She wants these Games. She wants the power play. But she has to know we wouldn't vote for this. The five of us are majority enough."

"We know how Enobaria will vote, and probably Augustus. I imagine Nox will be with them," Haymitch says under his breath. "Even if they manage to get Beetee, we still outnumber them."

"She thinks I'm going to vote yes," I realize aloud. She's seen me. A spiteful, angry, spark of a girl. She assumes my devastation will translate to revenge. Haymitch stares at my face, trying to read me, but I can't read myself.

I want blood.

That night Peeta and I lie in bed facing each other, the moonlight spread across our skin like the evening has given us a blanket. I remember Gale pushing me to talk. _What's going on in your head?_ Peeta doesn't push. He waits without expectation or greed. We don't ask each other how we will vote. The night air that settles between our bodies like an invisible barrier. We don't say anything for a while, we just feel everything pulling us apart, everything pushing us together.

"Can I touch your cheek?" he says softly. My heart thrashes against my chest like an ironsmith hammering a glowing piece of steel. We don't touch anymore. I've put up a barricade; something to protect my heart from breaking anymore, from healing anymore, from feeling anymore.

"Okay," I try to say, but it's more breath than anything. Peeta raises his hand until his palm sweeps across my cheek and settles there. It's heat and pressure. I feel the warmth from his hand radiate through the rest of my body. It's like he can hear my thoughts, like he can sense the vengeance brewing beneath the surface.

"I think we've had enough death, don't you?" he asks softly. I nod under his palm before I roll over. I lean back and press my back into his chest. He curls his legs behind mine and weaves our fingers together.

I don't tell him about Prim. Gale. Beetee. Coin.

We said no more lies, but Peeta is not going to help me with this.

I lie there for hours, staring at the wall across the room, watching the moonlight flicker and wane, running through scenarios in my head. We cannot continue to allow innocent people to pay for the crimes of others. I cannot let this happen. Not again.

"Katniss?" Peeta breathes, and my heart leaps to my throat. I thought he was asleep, that I was alone in the silence, scheming and fuming and brooding. But I can hear vulnerability in his voice and so I let the anger slip away from me.

"Yeah?" I ask softly, not sure if he can even hear me over the thud of my pulse in my chest, my throat, my ears.

"Do you really think Prim was my fault?" His voice is small. He can't sleep. He's not just asking if I think Prim is his fault. _He_ thinks Prim is his fault. He's thought it for a while.

I roll over to face him. My fingers move to his forehead out of habit, as if to push a curl from his eyes, but there is no hair on his head. Instead my finger just ghosts against his skin. I meet his stare. I can feel him holding his breath, I can feel him aching through his skin.

"No," I state, my voice even.

"But if I'd just waited another second to pull you back, maybe I could have pulled her too," he rambles, remorse heavy in his throat.

"No," I whisper, tugging myself closer to him, sliding my hands across his head. "She was already gone. There was nothing you could do," The words rebound in my skull, as if I have no brain. As if I'm hollow. But now I'm telling myself. _Nothing you could do. Nothing you could do. There was nothing you could do._ The realization sweeps over me. "There was nothing I could do," I breathe, my voice hitching. My eyes fill with tears, stinging, salty, burning. I feel like I can't breathe. Like I can finally breathe. Like I have no air and all the air and too much air. "There was nothing I could do!"

Peeta wraps himself around me and I let myself melt into him. He doesn't hush me or try to stop me from crying. Sometimes there's beauty in the breakdown.

It wasn't his fault.

It wasn't my fault either.

We let the weight of it all slip from our bodies and through the sheets, the bed, the floor, the foundation, the street below. We let the culpability sink into the earth. Neither one of us could have saved her. We didn't know what was coming.

Peeta pulls himself onto his elbows, looking down at me with a familiar gaze. We study each other – two burned, broken, out of place kids. We've used intimacy to get through things before, but something about the way I look at Peeta now is different. Only he could get me to see through my anger and absolve myself. I lean forward and kiss him slowly. I feel him open above my body like he's giving himself to me, offering for me to take what I need. It's a form of comfort I didn't know existed. There are too many emotions pulsing through my body that I can't grapple with - grief over my sister, abandonment from my mother, the anguish of losing my best friend coupled with the rage I feel over his part in all of it. I don't know how to process these things, but when Peeta slides his hands under my shirt and up my bare back he takes some of that burden with him. We are one person, one heat, one life sharing in each other's pain and joy.

And so I let him take me. I arch my back as he closes his mouth around my nipple, I tremble as he curls a finger into me. I let my thoughts drift to a place where I don't know what pain is. When I pull the clothes away from my body I'm asking him to override the helplessness that is a near constant for me now. I ask him to remind me who I am - that this broken shell of a girl is only semi-permanent. Even just listening to him breathe, the air heavy in his chest as he bites his lip, feels like a symphony compared to the darkness I've been living in. When I glide him into me his eyes open wide and I can feel the grief coming out of our skin like sweat. It makes the air heavy with sorrow, but it's better around us than in us. And so we rock together, a messy dance of mouths and movement. I kiss him until we're blind to anything else. When he drops his body on top of mine – quaking and sheened in sweat – he reminds me that I'm not alone. Even though I've lost more than I think I can endure, I'm not alone.


	27. Chapter 27 - The Vote

Peeta's life has been mapped out on his body – each mark, every scar erased and replaced by a new pain. Entering the Arena his hands we covered with burn marks from mishaps at the bakery, although one along his shoulder was different than the others. The scars on his hands were light and smooth, as if he had flinched and quickly pulled away. The one on his back was risen, dark… intentional. He told me he'd accidentally leaned against an oven. He's never told me he was held there, but he didn't have to. It was between the words.

The Capitol wiped away the bakery burns and Arena scars after our first Games, but they were quickly replaced by the gaping tears of barbed wire-wrapped bats in District 8. Electrical burns in the Arena. Whatever they did to him in the dungeon. He hid his body from me after that, but in the pale light peeking under my compartment door, I traced his story with my fingers.

He erased those marks too, only this time with fire. This time he was wide awake, searing away his story as he protected me from the flames.

I roll over and watch him sleep. He's lying on his stomach, his back exposed. The canvas is a hodgepodge of color; the new skin much paler and almost translucent compared to what they could salvage of his own. He had the body polish, so it's a much smoother transition than mine, but no one would be able to look at him without knowing he had lived a life of pain. He told me after his hijacking he didn't want to forget anything else, but he's trying to scrub the explosion from his body. He can cope with the reminders of his own torture, but he cannot look at his skin without losing Prim over and over.

I stare at my patchwork hands. I know from experience.

I slip out of bed and wrap a sheet around my body. I step into the bathroom, tiptoeing over the cold tile floor. I bend over the sink and drink water from the faucet. I swish some of the stale liquid between my teeth before spitting it into the porcelain basin. Even the water here tastes different from home. I lift my face and meet my reflection in the mirror. My skin is pale. My hair has started making its long recovery back. There are bags under my eyes that seem to get darker every day. I don't really sleep anymore.

I look out from the bathroom at the sleeping boy in my bed. I wonder if he'll forgive me. If he'll understand.

We promised we wouldn't lie to each other, but I can't tell him the truth. I can't risk him and his moral high ground getting in my way. He's always been a better person than me. Good.

He wouldn't condone any of this.

I close the bathroom door and dress in the dark. I fumble with my shoes and shove my feet inside, not bothering with the laces. I'm quiet at the door, not letting it move, not letting it creak. Old houses, like my old home in the Seam or even the vacant houses of Victor's Village, breathe and creak and moan. The Presidential Mansion is sterile. Stoic. Solid. It doesn't creak, it doesn't even move. I tie my laces in the hallway and start walking toward the stairs. I'm sure there are cameras. I can't be seen running. I calmly make my way down the stairs, to the door, and out into the courtyard. I yank the gate open and glide away from the palace.

I force my feet to slow their pace. I walk at least a mile before I spot the tree in the distance. It's a willow. The branches dip down low, the leaves kissing the earth. It provides a blanket from prying eyes. I part the branches and duck inside.

He faces away from me, his back broad and tired. When he turns, his bronze cheeks are ruddy from the cold, late winter air. His lips are deep pink, a smile breaking across them and fading again.

"I thought you might not come," he whispers.

"Peeta couldn't sleep," I offer and Finnick nods knowingly, sliding his knit hat from his head and tugging it onto mine.

"Geez, Katniss, your ears might just fall off they are so red."

The branches rustle and we turn our heads to watch Haymitch stumble inside, swearing and cursing the twigs that catch in his hair.

"Just one time I'd like to have a conspiratorial meeting in a bar with a fire blazing and a drink in my hand," he mumbles, picking bits of branches and throwing them on the ground.

And so the three of us talk in the dead of night until early morning, when we finally sneak back one by one. We climb back into the beds of lovers - those too innocent to bring along.

Hours later, we are back at the mahogany table. Things unfold as we would expect. Enobaria remains a yes. So do Augustus and Nox. Beetee's fingers fidget with his pants.

"No," he states. "It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No."

Annie quietly votes no, as if even participating in this morbid ritual makes her feel dirty. She runs her hand softly over her stomach, soothing baby and mother alike.

"No," Finnick answers firmly.

"Absolutely not," Peeta votes. "We cannot have another Hunger Games."

Was it like this then? Seventy-five years or so ago? Did a group of people sit around and cast their votes on initiating the Hunger Games? Was there dissent? Did someone make a case for mercy that was beaten down by the calls for death? Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change, unless we make it happen here and now.

"I vote yes," I say, trying to keep my voice even.

"Katniss," Peeta exhales, disbelief permeating the air around him.

"For Prim," I add, but I can feel him vibrating next to me.

"What are you doing? Those are kids, Kat. Prim wouldn't want this," he manages. I don't look at him. If I look at him I won't be able to pull this off. I gulp and do what I have to do.

"Don't tell me what Prim would want. It's only fair. An eye for an eye," I answer.

It sounds like he's choking. It takes every bit of willpower I have to sit still in my seat. I hear a screeching noise and he's thrown his chair backward. I can see his hands on the table, his knuckles white. He groans, nearly dropping to his knees.

"I don't even know you." Peeta practically gags on the words. I catch him out of the corner of my eye. His forehead is knotted. He's trying to breathe. "I need to leave," Peeta pants, and I realize what's happening. He's been triggered. And it's not by a word, or a scent, or a taste.

It's just by me.

It's by the betrayal that hangs in the poisoned air between us.

I thought we were past this. So did he. But neither of us expected I'd rock his world to its core. That I'd be the one to make reality shiny and unbearable.

"The meeting has not yet adjourned. We have outstanding votes to tally," Coin answers. Peeta groans and nearly loses his balance.

"I need to leave!" he spits out again.

"I got him. I got this," Finnick answers, rising from the table. "Come on, Peet, come with me," he offers, wrapping an arm around Peeta's shoulders and starting toward the door. I feel his body jerk back to mine.

"Stay away from me," the Mutt growls.

It should be easy to fall in love. It wasn't with Peeta and I. Nothing was ever easy.

But nothing was ever hard like this.

Breaking his heart on purpose.

The door closes behind the men and Coin's eyes fall on Haymitch. The vote is tied – four to four.

"I'm with the Mockingjay," Haymitch answers.

Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the last Hunger Games.


	28. Chapter 28 - Allies & Enemies

I walk into the meeting groggy and blurry-eyed. I haven't been sleeping since the explosion, but last night was a horrifying mix of nightmares and panicked waking. My bed was cold and empty. The sheets felt like blankets of ice. Eventually I got up and took a shower, trying to rub the heat back into my fingertips. Without Peeta, everything feels empty. Everything hurts more.

The table is surrounded by new government officials, former rebel leaders, and the victors that voted in affirmation of the Games. I sit next to Haymitch, plopping down in my chair sloppily. If Effie were here I'd get an earful. There is a spread of assorted breakfast foods on the table. Haymitch tries to get me to eat something, but I shake my head. He stares at me until I finally relent and chew on the end of a scone.

"Thank you all for joining us today in the first of many planning sessions for the upcoming Hunger Games. While the agenda of future meetings shall encompass logistics for the main event, today we will focus on the Reaping and pool of tributes," Coin states. She stands at the head of the table, gesturing to a visual aid. The projector turns on and in the center of the table a holograph appears. It almost looks like a family tree.

Most of the people in the Seam had some kind of rudimentary map of their ancestors inked into the back of a book or folded on a piece of worn paper. I remember reading the names of my grandparents – Lily and Ernst Ainesworth, Aria and Ryn Everdeen. My dad's parents died before I was born. Longevity is not an attribute of Seam folk. My mother's parents disowned her when she left home to marry a miner. She says they died when I was a kid. The apothecary in town was run by as a cousin who never spoke to us.

The tree glowing digitally over the table is different. It's not tracing family roots. It's a death warrant. It's an organization chart of Snow's regime, and then underneath each are the child relatives of those traitors who would be eligible for Reaping. My jaw drops as I stare at some of the faces. Reaping age has been lowered to ten to ensure a sizable pool of candidates. Some of the children barely look old enough to read, let alone fight. The scone threatens to resurface and I swallow hard.

I catch Haymitch watching me and turn toward him. He doesn't need to speak. I know what he's trying to say. _Play it cool. Make her trust you._ I know what to do. She needs a scapegoat. I clear my throat.

"Is his granddaughter Snow's only blood relative to put in the Games?" I ask pointedly.

"Yes. Both his wife and his daughter died in childbirth. She is the end of his direct bloodline," Coin replies. I nod curtly. I hope they read me as bloodthirsty. Coin eyes me approvingly, but it's not enough.

"Why is Minister Nunn excluded from this list?" I push again.

"It was our understanding Minister Nunn was part of the Nationless effort to betray President Snow," one of the members of Coin's Council asserts.

"So?" I retort. "She was directly involved in the aerial assaults on Five and Eight."

"Minister Nunn had no family," Coin adds. "But I agree with the Mockingjay. Those involved in criminal acts should not be excluded from retribution just because they subscribed to a rebel group with questionable motives." She taps a screen with her fingers and the tree blossoms out. New branches illuminate in brilliant yellow. "These are the perpetrators of war crimes known to have later sworn allegiance to the Nationless." Coin nods in my direction, imperceptibly turning up the corner of her thin mouth for only me.

I've won her trust. She wanted the Nationless included; she just couldn't be the one to do it. But I'm a woman wrecked by loss. No one will question my motives. Under the table, Haymitch squeezes my knee.

"Good," I say coldly.

"While we need more time to plan the Games themselves, the Reaping cannot wait. The will of the people must be satiated. A quick and decisive Reaping will do just that," Coin adds.

"I think we should involve them more in the planning of the Games. Take a note from Snow's playbook. Maybe have them vote on which Arena to resurrect?" I ask. This time Coin's smile isn't hidden. It's not a wide grin, she couldn't manage that, but the corners of her lips curl at the cruelty of it all. I've never seen her smile. It looks freakish. It's absolutely unsettling.

"That is a fantastic idea, Mockingjay," she approves encouragingly. I mirror her smile. She thinks she's playing me.

Only she doesn't know how to play.

"The Reaping will be held in two days' time in the City Square," Coin announces, and after further discussion of logistics and details, she concludes the meeting. Haymitch and I stand to leave, but when I turn my back I hear her cutting voice. "Soldier Everdeen?" she asks. _Soldier once again._

I turn.

"I appreciate your support today. I think our unity is exactly what Panem needs to move forward in reconstruction," she states.

"We have a common goal," I answer. "Don't confuse alliance with unity." I feel Haymitch steel next to me, but I know my prey. I'm not passive and she knows it. I need to convince her of my loyalty, but it can't be out of character.

"Well, it's good to finally have you as an ally," she responds.

"Likewise," I say, and turn to leave again. I stop. Still facing the door, I utter, "Gale would have wanted it this way." I feel dirty, using him like this, but every thought I have about Gale makes me feel dirty. Hugging the man, loving the man, trusting the man that killed my sister.

"Katniss?" Coins says, and my name on her lips makes every hair on my neck stand straight up. I turn around, training my face to portray coolness. I raise my eyebrows, feigning composure. "I'm sorry about Peeta. I know this decision can't be easy for you." It takes everything in me not to strangle her here and now.

"Peeta and I have always been…" I search for the word. "Different." I know she wants to say more, but I can't discuss this without lunging at her face and tearing her eyes out with my nails. "I'll see you at the Reaping, President Coin," I finally offer before I leave. It's the first time I've ever addressed her by her title. She raises her chin a little.

Haymitch and I leave and walk silently down the hall. For a while, at least, we are on our own. We thought it would be suspicious if Finnick voted yes, and with Annie's pregnancy we couldn't do anything to jeopardize the baby. Neither Effie or Peeta are speaking to either one of us. We are meeting Finnick at the willow tree tonight, although he'll already be just as up-to-date as we are now. In an hour, Coin will announce the Reaping to all of Panem. Soldiers will be collecting tributes tonight after one general expressed concern that they might flee.

"You doing okay?" Haymitch asks me. It makes me frustrated. None of this is easy on him, either, but I never think to ask how anyone else is.

"I'm okay," I mutter. We're quiet as he walks me back to my room. We stand silently outside my door.

"See you tomorrow?" I finally confirm. He nods. I know he wants to say more, but Haymitch and I have never been good at any of this talky-feely stuff.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow, sweetheart," he mumbles, before he walks away, shuffling his feet on the pristine tile floor. Haymitch and I don't fit in here. Once upon a time, we were both dirty Seam kids, covered in soot and poverty. We are oddities among the shiny faucets and fancy filigreed china.

I open the door to my room. I'm not surprised to find it empty. This was the plan. But it makes my chest ache in a way that is nearly suffocating. I walk across the room and shove my window open. Frigid air billows in. I stick my head out the window and breathe in. I want to be away from here. I want to be in my woods, at the lake. I want my sister, but none of that will ever come to be. I'm a raw fuse. I shift from sorrow to fury in the blink of an eye. I slam the window closed, hoping I'll shatter the glass into a million pieces so something will finally feel as broken I do. Instead, it remains steadfast and transparent and perfect, just like everything else in this stupid room.

I stare at the wall, trying to solidify exactly what I'll do at the Reaping. I stand and mimic the movements. I slide an arrow from my imaginary sheath, nock it. I'll have seconds, maybe less, before Coin's guards shoot me. I reach in my pocket and pull out a rudimentary sketch of the design of the stage I drew during our last meeting. I memorize where everyone will be standing. My eyes linger on the P drawn of the far left of the platform. All the living victors have mandatory attendance.

This is the part of my plan Finnick and Haymitch don't know about. This is the part I do alone.

My fingers trace the procession of each person on the stage. I stare at Coin.

I can do this. One more time.

The letters on the paper begin to blur and I grab the side of the bed, suddenly unsteady on my feet. I make my way to the bathroom but the vertigo sends me reeling and I hit the wall instead. Using my hands, I glide myself through the bathroom door. I'm dehydrated. I need water. I grasp the counter like a life raft. I try to cup my hands under the stream of water from the bathroom sink but an overwhelming nausea takes over. Sweat begins to pool on my lower eyelids. I drop to my knees and vomit on the floor.

What is happening to me? There is a phone on the wall next to the bathtub. I start to crawl but my muscles are too weak _. Move Katniss. Move_. I force myself forward until I am directly under the phone. I reach haplessly for the receiver and knock it from its cradle. It hits the ground with a crash, but when I pick it up the buttons still work. I'm disoriented but I manage to enter the number I need.

On the end of the line I hear her sweet voice answer. In my delirium she sounds like a songbird.

"Hello? Hello?" Annie asks, but I'm already slipping away. Everything is so quiet now.

 _Prim sits on the edge of the bathtub, watching me on the floor. She doesn't say anything, but the longer I stare at her face the less I'm able to recognize her. This is what healing is like. It's forgetting. I remember breaking into a cold sweat one night, choking on tears. I forgot my dad's voice. I thought I had it again for a moment, but was that really what he sounded like? Was his top lip straight like that? I stare at Prim until she blends in with the air._

"Roll her over!" I hear Finnick cry out, forcing me back to reality. "She's choking!" I feel his strong hand hammer my back and I vomit on the floor again. He cradles me in his arms and pats my cheek lightly. "Kat? Katniss? Are you with me?"

Annie's at the sink running a washcloth under the water. She brings it to my forehead and it feels like ice. "She's burning up," Annie states. I try to speak, but instead of words it sounds like the gurgling sound a fish makes on dry land.

"What is it?" Annie asks. I try to focus and find her sea green eyes, her blushing cheek and auburn hair.

"Haymitch…" I manage to croak out. Her eyes grow wide.

"Go!" Finnick says and she's on her feet. "Call for a medic!" he shouts as Annie sprints out of the room. Finnick trains his eyes back on me.

"Do you want Peeta?" he asks.

 _Always_. I shake my head no.

"Okay," Finnick answers. His face looks funny, like a mix of shapes that should make up a face but don't. I can't focus. I feel his muscles strain and suddenly I'm in the air. I can't even hold my head up. It's like I'm made of string and no bones. Finnick carries me out of the room and into the hallway. He takes off running and I can't help but remember Mags bobbing on his back. I smile and something about it doesn't sit right with my rescuer. "None of that, Katniss. You stay with me. Wherever you are, you come back to me."

When we reach the lobby of the palace it's in utter chaos. There are medical crews and stretchers everywhere. People being loaded into vans and ambulances and carried away. I try to focus on Finnick's face as he takes in the crowd. "It's the people from the meeting this morning," he says quietly.

I hear a shuffling noise to my right and see Peeta push his way through the crowd.

"Katniss?" he asks as a medic wheels a stretcher toward Finnick. I look up at Finnick and shake my head.

"She doesn't want to see you," Finnick tells Peeta, trying to be gentle with his words, but you can't sugarcoat bile. "Can you go find Annie? She was checking on Haymitch." Peeta stares at me as Finnick finally puts me down, shaking his arms out before stepping back and letting the responders take my vitals. They start to wheel me away, but when Finnick follows they stop.

"You can't come with us, sir," one says firmly.

"I'm not leaving her," Finnick answers. He looks over his shoulder. I assume Peeta is standing still, unable to move. "Please, Peet. Go find Annie. I got this." Finnick follows my stretcher, much to the chagrin of the medical staff.

I don't make it to the van before I pass out again.


	29. Chapter 29 - Visitors

"Food poisoning," Finnick says from the chair next to my bed. "That's the official story."

"It wasn't food poisoning. I've eaten more than my fair share of meals from the garbage. I know food poisoning. This wasn't that," I respond.

"It's what they are saying. The only people affected were those in the morning meeting. The mess was served a different breakfast than what was sent to the Summit," Finnick answers. It's food poisoning, but not from spoiled food. I lean back against my pillow and close my eyes. This would all be a lot easier if the room would stop spinning.

"Is everyone okay?" I ask, although I'm not sure if I care.

"Yeah, so far. Most are like you, just getting fluids in them. The height of the illness lasted less than an hour for most," he responds. "You are all being held overnight, though. For observation."

"Coin won't like that," I mutter, not as under my breath as I'd hoped for. "How's Haymitch?"

"He's okay. Still got a puke bucket in his lap. You came around a lot faster than everyone else," Finnick answers.

"Well, I barely ate," I say, and Finnick pricks an eyebrow. "It's not food poisoning!" I moan, dropping my head back on my pillow. I look over and see Annie asleep in the corner, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. A twang of guilt pitches in my chest. Annie shouldn't be on the floor. Finnick reads my face.

"Oh I tried. She prefers it. After her time in captivity, she says everything feels too soft. It's a miracle when I can get her in bed at night," he says.

"She slept in my bed," I state.

"She was being polite. And she didn't sleep at all, she just stared at the ceiling all night," Finnick sighs, running his hands through his hair. It's hard to love someone and feel helpless at the same time. It's something Finnick, Haymitch, and I share in an unspoken truth that hangs between us – loving those that were down in the dungeon.

"Someone should be with Haymitch," I say, trying to sit up but feeling too dizzy to manage.

"Um, yeah. Peeta's over there. I wasn't sure you'd want to know," he replies. I don't. But I do.

"How is he?" I ask quietly.

Finnick looks over and watches Annie for a minute, making sure she's really asleep. "He's okay. He spends most of his time with Annie or locked in his room painting. I tried to get him to talk about it but he just shuts down." Finnick straightens his back in his seat, then leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "I don't think he knows what to do with himself. He wants to be with you, but I've never seen him angry like this. He's never been an angry guy. I'm not sure he'll be able to come around, Kat. Even if you are honest with him." He waits a beat, as if debating whether or not to say the next words. "Are you sure this is worth it?"

It might be easier if Peeta hates me in the aftermath of what's to come. Maybe he'll finally be able to move on. Find a girl, start a family. The thought makes me feel sick. In the Arena, when Peeta dropped the locket in the palm of my hand, he offered me a life without him. Marry Gale. He was happy to know I could be. Now, facing my last Arena, the thought of him intimate with another girl makes my skin feel like it's rotting from my bones. I want him. I want him for me and no one else. But all I know is I can't have him anywhere near me if he's going to stay safe.

Finnick and Haymitch still think the plan is solely to spy on Coin. Get her to open up to me, trust me, bring me in on some of her darker plans because she knows that underneath is all, my heart is as dark as the coal my father hammered away from the walls of the mines. My heart is black, just like the one was left in her chest when her husband and daughter were lost to the plague.

Once we have what we need, we can expose her. Show the people who she truly is.

Trust the process.

I don't have time for that. The Hunger Games could happen by then, and I'm not about to sacrifice children to spare Coin's life. To spare mine. I had to vote for the Games if she was ever going to think of the two of us as on the same side, but I have no intent on letting any of it come to be. I keep my eyes training on the wall. I feel Finnick watching my face.

"You should sleep," Finnick says. When I finally look back at him, he's taken two straws from my bedside table and stuffed them under his top lip so they look like tusks. He puffs out his chest and claps his hands in front of him. "Why does a walru-th only th-wim in th-alt water?" he asks in what I think is his attempt at a walrus voice, the straws causing an unintended but humorous lisp.

"Why?" I can't help but respond.

"Because pepper makes them th-neeze!" Finnick replies, laughing to himself. I fight it, but a grin spreads across my cheeks. He beams triumphantly, pulling the straws from his mouth. "Ha! Got you to smile!"

"What's a walrus?" I ask. He groans.

"You really need to come to Four, Miss Everdeen. You've lived a terribly sheltered life," Finnick teases. I hear a giggle from the floor and find Annie awake.

"I feel like a walrus," she grunts as she tries to push herself to her feet. "Help me up." In one swift motion, Finnick pulls his wife into his arms and plants a wet kiss on her cheek. She wipes it away with a smirk.

"We're letting the girl sleep," Finnick says, the flicker in his eye that only shows up for Annie flashing brightly.

"Sounds like a plan," she agrees. They start to leave but Annie pauses for a moment, turning back and meeting my eyes. Her faces shifts. "Katniss," she starts, unsure how to move forward. "I don't like what you did with the vote. But I don't think it's too late for you to fix things. You have a voice. You can still use it."

"It's what I want," I lie with more skill than makes me comfortable. I've been lying for so long it feels like a second skin now. She watches at me with a sad look in her eye. It's pity.

"I hope you feel better," she says softly before she and Finnick slip from the room.

I try to sleep but my mind churns. Everyone from the meeting is sick, no exceptions. It means Coin is somewhere in the hospital. I could do it now, probably without notice. Slip into her room, stick something in her IV. Smother her with a pillow. I could actually survive.

But you don't liberate a people in the dark. Coin needs to be taken down in front of all of Panem. It will put a stop to her presidency, to the Games, to the bloodthirsty and corrupt path this infant country is hurdling down. The Mockingjay lives only to slay the tyrant. Rinse, repeat until every maniac with its clutches on this nation is dead, or the Mockingjay is.

One last time.

I stare at the ceiling and count the tiles. Four rows of five. Twenty. After I die, twenty will still come after nineteen.

Finnick is trying to work out the poisoning. He knows it was more than just rotted food. Most of what was said was for the listening devices we assume are hidden throughout the hospital. I receive word the Reaping will commence tomorrow morning as planned. I nod and the door is closed, leaving me with the mechanical lullaby of the hospital. Finally my eyes start to droop and I slip away underneath the stiff cotton sheets.

I'm asleep for what feels like minutes, but when I wake my room is pitch dark. Night has fallen. I missed my last sunset. I feel an ache in my bones when I remember napping on the roof of the Tribute Center, Peeta waking me. _I thought you'd want to see this_ , he said with his eyes transfixed on the pink horizon, the sun disappearing from the sky with bursts of orange and streaks of red. I hear someone making adjustments on the machine next to my bed and realize I'm not alone. My body stiffens.

I pretend to be asleep. I don't trust the doctors. I don't trust anyone. I open my eyes just barely to spy on my visitor. They blurrily set on a small figure. She's not from here. There is a hospital in District 4 and visiting staff from there wear seafoam green uniforms, not too unlike the dull white scrubs they donned in 13. When she turns toward my bed, I nearly choke on my words.

"Mom?" my voice comes out tiny, like I'm just a little girl again. I assumed I'd be angry or bitter, but just the sight of my mother makes the crack in our family left by Prim seem so enormous I can't even breathe.

"Shhhh," she quiets me, putting a finger to her lips. Tears stream down my cheeks and I hate myself for it, I hate her for it, but all I want in this moment is for her to crawl in bed with me and cradle me like she did when I was little. I want her to hold me. I want to hide in her arms and feel safe like I did before my father died. "They can't know I'm here," she whispers.

She looks different and it's not just the scrubs. Her hair is dark. She's wearing thick glasses. She has makeup on. I'm not sure I'd have even known it was her if she weren't my mom.

"I shouldn't have come to your room but I had to see you at least once," she says in a hushed breath.

"Where have you been?" I ask angry words, but my voice is desperate and needy. I don't recognize myself.

"There's no time for that, Katniss. I have to go now. But I want you to know that no matter what happens, I love you. I don't want you to blame yourself for what happened to Prim." At her name, my mother chokes a bit. "Prim saw nothing but heroism in you, Katniss. So do I. I've never been prouder to be your mother." My nose and throat fill with phlegm and I try to breath but I'm making those ugly hiccups sounds that happen when I cry too hard. "I love you," she whispers again, kissing my forehead before she slips out of my room. I remember the feel of her lips on my skin, kissing away a bruised knee or placing a peck on my nose before pulling the covers of my bed to my chin. The mom I had before she disappeared.

 _I love you too, Mom._ But the words are never said, not for her or me.

After tomorrow, it will be too late.


	30. Chapter 30 - The Reaping

I'm woken by my prep team before the sun has even risen out my hospital window. The Reaping is to take place at two, just like it does every year. I haven't been discharged yet, but they flutter around my bed, tripping on machines and wires as they buff my nails and whiten my teeth and apply all kinds of ointments to any bit patchwork skin that might show. Around nine I manage to eat and hold down a small bowl of oatmeal. I'm discharged at ten. I make my way back to the Presidential Palace, shower, and take a seat as they do the rest of their work. The entire team is silent. Flavius avoids my eyes as he runs his fingers through my short hair.

They're not angry. I grapple trying to put a word on the feeling that emanates between us all.

It's disappointment.

I close my eyes and picture the prep session before the Quell interviews. The morning after Peeta and I had been separated by locked doors. I remember his head in my lap, my fingers running through his curls. I remember the loving look my prep team gave me as they spied on us from the hallway.

It doesn't matter much whether they forgive me after I'm dead, but somehow I hope they do.

I'm finally dressed in my replica uniform. I look to my shoulder. No little pocket with a little purple suicide pill. I'm on my own.

I follow my prep team down the hallway. The Reaping will take place on the same stage the awards ceremony did. We walk slowly. I'm dizzy, I'm still so dizzy. I listen for my feet on the ground but hear nothing over the hammering of my pulse in my ears. I don't think I'm breathing at all, but when I look up I'm already outside and staring at the wooden stairs that ascend to the stage. To my left, someone slides my bow and a quiver of arrows on my body. I need to look a certain way. I need to send a certain message.

I walk the steps as though I'm marching toward a guillotine. When I reach the stage I see everyone spread out where they are supposed to be. My eyes dart and I spot Peeta on the far side of the stage. I follow his gaze and realize he's staring at the children lined up to be reaped. Some are so small I nearly lose my balance. I find a little girl with flaxen blonde hair and I can hear Effie's words ring out in the air and stab my heart. _Primrose Everdeen!_

Never again.

I jerk my head back and scan the stage for Coin. I find her locked in a quiet conversation with an advisor. She breaks eye contact with them and looks up at me. Her skin is ashen. She's clearly not fully recovered from the incident. I wonder if she was actually discharged or if she just couldn't stay away. I wonder if she's off balance like me, if her stomach still lurches when she moves too suddenly.

I nod curtly, she nods back. I look back to the far side of the stage and catch Peeta watching me. We briefly meet eyes, but he quickly drops his gaze to the wooden planks of the floor. He can't even look at me. Finnick puts a hand on his shoulder and Peeta turns away.

The Reaping starts precisely on time. Two large crystal Reaping bowls are presented, each holding the names of the children to be selected. The council worked out some kind of formula where the number of instances of a name in the bowl directly correlates to the quantity and severity of war crimes committed by the corresponding relative. Snow's granddaughter's name appears 1,932 times. Her name makes up almost two-thirds of names in the girls' Reaping bowl. Once a name is selected, the Reaper will swipe their finger across the name and the matching slips in the bowls will disintegrate. Each bowl will be drawn from 13 times. Even though District 13 did not take part in the Games, it was argued justice would not be had if each district weren't represented equally.

I look to the children and try to find her. Snow's granddaughter is toward the front, obviously a presentational placement. Her tiny hands are knotted in the skirt of her dress, but her chin is up. When I look closer, I can see her jaw trembling even though she has locked her mouth shut.

Coin makes her way to the front of the stage. She mounts a podium that launches upward, raising her nearly twenty feet in the air for everyone to behold. She begins her speech. I listen to the words we've all come to know. I hear them buzz in my head. It's the same story every year. The history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes. She lists the disasters, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas. The brutal war where those that were left fought for what little resources remained. These were the circumstances that birthed Panem. It all feels like the same old droning speech until she gets to the Dark Days. Instead of painting the first rebellion as a time of shame, Coin describes the Districts as sowing the seeds of change.

"Those brave brothers and sisters paved the way to freedom. It may have taken us generations to finish what they started, but their children finally know peace," Coin announces. Her stance wavers slightly and she grips the side of the podium. I'm not sure the crowd notices from the distance, but those of us on the stage are staring at her like we're watching some kind of horrible accident. I scan the faces of those turned up to watch her. I see concern, yes, but nowhere do I find worry. The minds of the government representatives click and churn with logistics, not a genuine care over her wellbeing. For a second my chest twinges in pity and doubt. What am I doing?

Coin clears her throat and addresses the crowd once more. "We know peace, but today we shall know justice. One cannot exist without the other. Today the Capitol shall atone for the crimes of their people with the same blood sacrifice they demanded of the districts. Today they offer their own up for tribute. The country shall be baptized in the blood of those lost. We shall finally be made equal."

My blood runs cold. I can feel it pulsing to my fingertips and down my legs. I look out and find Snow's granddaughter again. She keeps her head up, but underneath her legs are shaking violently.

No more.

I reach behind my back and slide an arrow from my quiver. I load it on the bow before anyone's eyes have even reached me. I raise my head toward Coin, but everything blurs and I lose my balance just slightly. I feel my arrow drop and try to force it back up but my stomach lurches. The after effects of the poisoning make everything spin just slightly. I can't shoot if I can't hold my hands up. I clench everything inside me and lift the bow as my arms quake.

Pop pop pop. I'm not sure if I feel the bullets pass through my body. I hear them, like a whip and then I'm on the ground though I don't know why. Everything underneath me is wet and hot. I remember the first time Peeta was triggered. He threw me into a cabinet and the glass shattered, and when I landed on my back I could feel the blood pooling under me.

Like a bath.

Like a warm bath.

Suddenly I'm back in the beginning of it all. Underwater in my bathtub, staring up at a world that doesn't quite make sense. Before the Tour. Back when I thought I'd survived what I had to.

"Katniss? Katniss?" Peeta's on his knees over me. He's covered in blood and for a moment I panic until I remember it's mine. This is all mine. I try to focus on his face, his words, but I can't stay here. Instead I'm back in Four, standing waist deep in the ocean, Peeta just inches in front of me and yet the furthest he's ever been. "I know you've thought it," he pleaded, the words shaky and salty and raw.

I made sure he didn't know how to swim before I was well out of his reach.

I made sure he knew nothing about this. That he hated me. That I was out of his reach.

"You aren't leaving me!" I hear his words break through. I'm not sure if the words are then or now or both.

There are motions and movements behind Peeta. People rushing away from me. I turn my head and I can just make her out, lying lifeless on the stage just feet from my body. Coin. There's no arrow protruding from her chest. No bloody baptism beneath her body. She just looks pale. She drools, white foam dripping from the corner of her mouth, that sick smile forever absent from her lips.

I see Finnick rushing toward me across the stage and a guard stepping in his way. Fists. I feel hands but I'm not sure who they belong to. I'm lifted and something solid slides under by back.

"On three. One, two, three, lift," a man barks and I'm in the air. Peeta is following me, blood covering his clothes. I'm loaded into some vehicle. Peeta leaps in behind me, despite the protests of the busy people cutting my suit from my body.

"No, no," I beg as I try to shove Peeta desperately toward the door. He can't be here. He can't. A medic grabs my arms and holds them at my side. Everything hurts. Everything burns. I feel my body start shaking forcefully.

"Hold on, just hold on," Peeta whispers as the medics jam needles in my arm, pumping a cocktail of chemicals into my body.

"I don't know why we are bothering," one of the men grumbles gruffly. "She tried to shoot the President. They're just going to execute her for treason anyway." It's as if all the air is sucked from the truck. The realization sweeps over Peeta. He looks sick. Even if I survive this, I'm not going to survive this.

Everything gets dark.


	31. Chapter 31 - Awake

Beep. Beep. It's drilling into my brain and I start to wonder if maybe there's a bullet hole in my head. My skull is throbbing. The beeping forcefully pushes me out of a blurry, non-linear unconsciousness and shoves me back into reality. This is suddenly very very real. I open my eyes slowly. I know the feeling of a hospital bed by now, but something about this is different. I feel weak, like my body doesn't know how to work.

I manage to open my eyes but I don't find the sterile, dull grey walls of a hospital room I expected. I know this place. I let me eyes adjust. The couches. The table. I'm in the Tribute Center. I move my hand to my body and yank up the stiff, cotton gown. There are three distinct wounds dressed in white gauze. I gingerly run my fingers across the dressing. One on the inside of my arm. One on my upper leg. One in my lower abdomen. The gauze is taped down and I peel it back from my skin. I'm not healed by any means, but these are not fresh, open wounds.

Weeks. I've been out weeks.

My chest starts to heave and I rip the tubes from my arms, tossing aside the blanket from the bed in my makeshift hospital. I swing my legs over the edge and put my feet on the floor. I try to stand but I immediately drop to my knees hard. I swallow the cry of pain building in my throat. I look at the familiar floor, the familiar room full of ghosts I am not ready to face.

Why am I still here?

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

All the other times I've been in the Tribute Center, there was an constant desperation in my chest, even though I tried to hide it. A desire to stay alive. I was desperate to live, to survive, to see my home again. Even before the Quell, when I chose Peeta, I still _wanted_ to live. I just knew I couldn't.

It's different now. I didn't want to survive this. I stare at the floor bitterly, Peeta's words rushing to my head. _Can't you see I want out of this?_

I eventually crawl my way to the couch and curl into a ball. They must know I'm awake. They must have purposefully weaned me off whatever drug they were using to keep me under. I'm still so tired, though, and I find myself drifting off and jolting back to a few times. I force myself to sit up and find the remote control lying on the table in front of me. I reach out with uneasy hands and turn on the television.

The headline racing across the bottom of the screen reads MOCKINGJAY – TRIAL OF THE CENTURY. The television shows a courtroom. Peeta and Haymitch sit on a bench directly behind a group of serious looking men and women. My heart leaps to my throat as I watch him. Peeta's knee bounces. I can almost feel his heart frantically slamming in his chest. He's wearing a brown suit and a tan tie, which his rolls between his fingers. Haymitch looks stoic. Tired.

There is a tribunal of judges facing the cameras, each scratching notes on a pad of paper or staring at their watches. The judge in the center calls recess and the courtroom files out. The cameras linger on Peeta, who looks uncertain if he should stay or go.

A reporter's face fills the screen as she recaps the events of the day. The Mockingjay is still medically unable to attend trial. The accusations put before her are attempted assassination of a government official, conspiracy, and treason. Each are capital crimes. My head hurts. I shut the television off and bury my face in the pillows of the couch. I remember lying here with Peeta while he read to me from a magazine and I feel asleep with my head in his lap. Now I stare at the window and wonder if they'd let the Mockingjay fly.

I walk slowly over. I think of Peeta sitting on the sill. _I just don't want them to turn me into something I'm not._ I slide my body on the wood, the cold surface seeping through the thin cotton of my hospital gown. My fingers run along the metal latch and my breath catches in my throat when it gives. I push the window slowly and it opens. The window is nearly 6 feet tall. I swing my legs over the side and let them dangle outdoors. A breeze catches the air and a gust pushes its way up my naked legs. It's still cold out. Not the bitterness of winter, though. Nearly Spring. I sit like that for a while, watching everything move below me, wondering what it would be like if I let myself fall. Would I be aware when I hit the ground? It would be quick though, right? I close my eyes and drop my head to the side of the window frame.

I still see her there, dancing behind my eyelids. Twirling and smiling and giggling. And for one happy moment, the memory is so potently real that I think I can smell her skin – the soft scent of soap and juniper. I lose track of time. My toes are numb. Everything is numb. The sun slips from the sky and I watch the world change beneath me. I watch a city still.

A slamming on the door startles me and flushes my skin with panic. The door opens and a brusque voice makes its presence known.

"You have a visitor," the guard announces impatiently. I pull my legs inside and latch the window shut. I try to say okay but my voice is hoarse and doesn't leave my mouth. I realize I'm thirsty. My mouth is dry. I want to grab some water, but when I look up everything slows down.

"You can't be here," I croak. Peeta stands in the door, still not sure if he should cross to me or not. He wants to. I want him to. Instead we just stare at each other. He's silent for a long time.

"Hi," he finally says.

"Hi," I whisper back. He stands there, positioned in front of the door. A tray of food sits on the floor in front of his feet. I have no idea when that showed up. I wouldn't have touched it anyway. Peeta doesn't feel like he can move, though.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asks, pain heavy in his voice. He tries to smooth it over. He's lying to me now, too.

"Because they had to believe you weren't involved," I respond, choking on my words. I hurt everywhere. I try to remember moments ago, my legs free in the air, but now I just feel cold.

"Why?" he asks again, his eyes glued to mine.

"Because they are going to execute me, Peeta," I say. I try to focus him on my words. "Finnick will testify about what happened at the vote. That you were so upset with me you had to be removed from the room. No one has seen us together since. You hate me now. It won't look like you were a part of this."

"Because you made sure I wasn't," he says. He can't process his feelings. He wrings his hands on his pant leg, unable to discern if he hates me or loves me. Or both.

"The vote was to earn her trust. And to alienate you," I say.

"I figured that out," Peeta responds, his voice quiet. Defeated. "Finnick says he didn't know. Haymitch."

"They didn't know about trying to kill her. They never would have let me go through with a suicide mission," I respond. It doesn't seem to make him feel better.

"I just… I don't understand how we got here," he whispers, burying his hands in his face. His hair has grown back, enough for him to tug at it. He deserves to know. My throat swells and I blink. My face is still frozen from the frigid Spring air that the tears slipping down my cheeks feel like they are burning my skin.

"Because I didn't get you out," I breathe.

"Of where?" he asks, pulling his face back up to mine.

"After the Quell. I let Snow take you. I said I would get you out of the Arena and instead I let him take you. I couldn't do that again. At least I could get you out of this one," I whisper. "I had no other choice. Panem needed to start over. The people needed peace. Coin would have never let that happen. Even if we had blocked the Games with a vote, it would just have been a setback for her. She needed to go. It was bigger than you and me. All of this has always been bigger than you and me. And I just thought…" I try to swallow but it feels like a rock. "I thought better me than you. At least this time I could make sure you got out."

The words hang between us. I can't hear him breathing. I wonder if he is.

"Why are you still here?" I ask as I break the silence. "I don't deserve it."

"Because you matter to me," he answers, his eyes locked with mine. I remember the promises we made Johanna as she lay on the floor of our room, broken but forcing herself to change. "Not the Mockingjay. Not the Victor. Not the tribute, the Girl on Fire, the griever. _You_ matter to me. Katniss Everdeen. I've never needed you to be more than that." Peeta stops and stares at the floor. "Can we just pretend?" he asks softly.

"Pretend what?" I reply.

"Pretend we're okay right now. For just a minute, can we just… can we pretend we are okay?" He lifts his face to mine, some bit of dim hope flickering in his eyes, refusing to be extinguished.

"Yeah," I breathe, and in a moment he's on his feet with his arms wrapped around my body. He's warm, he's impossibly warm. His hands travel to my hair and he sweeps his fingers in the short bob before running his hands over my neck, my cheek. My hands wander his body, pulling and holding and wanting. He buries his mouth in the crook of my neck and I can feel his hot breath on my skin.

"Now what?" Peeta asks, never moving his lips from my throat.

I stare at the locked door. The walls of my prison. It's only a matter of time.

"Now I get to see Prim again," I answer. He pulls back; his eyes dart immediately to mine. We're interrupted as the door swings open and a guard steps inside.

"Visiting Hour is over," the bulky man with square shoulders orders.

Peeta lets his arms drift away from my body, a look taking over his face. He ignores the words of the guard, focusing only on mine. I get to see Prim again. "Not if I can help it."


	32. Chapter 32 - The Meeting

A guard wheels me into the room. It's a simple space - white walls, an oblong wooden table and surrounding chairs, a small window on the outside wall. No curtains, no wallpaper. It's out of place in the garish Capitol. Like me. It doesn't belong. I'm in no mood to be here. I can already feel my anger percolating beneath my skin.

Peeta pushes himself from his seat and stands up, the way an attendant might stand at a procession. He pulls a chair from the table and I'm wheeled to the vacant spot before the guard steps back and exits the room.

The faces are mostly familiar - Haymitch, Finnick, and Peeta. A woman with big eyes and a tiny chin sits at the far end of the table, typing furiously into a computer before she closes it and takes me in. She's young, thirty maybe. Pretty, but not in a way you'd expect. I've seen her plenty on television. She's my lawyer.

"I'm what you call a Public Defender," she explains. Her voice is calm. Her entire demeanor exudes calm. I'm anything but. "It is my job to defend the accused in court."

"But who pays you?" I ask. I certainly didn't hire her.

"The government," she replies.

"Seems like a fixed game to me," I grumble. She stares at me inquisitively. "They pay for their own opponent?" I state more than ask.

"I think it's a noble concept. A government that guarantees it is challenged. That doesn't allow its people to face judgement alone," she answers. It would seem noble, too, if I could trust the government.

"Seems like you work for them, not me," I retort. Haymitch smirks. Peeta looks frustrated. "And what if the person you defend is guilty?" I ask. I see Peeta shift in his seat.

"I want to tell your story, Katniss," she replies, not taking the bait.

"Everyone already knows my story," I say, feeling defeated. I rest my head on the table. Even this small exchange is exhausting. My muscles are atrophied from weeks in bed. Everything makes me tired. Finnick places his hand on my back and I try to focus on that. I count his fingers one by one.

"I'm going to give the four of you a little time. I'll be right outside," she offers, standing from her seat and straightening her skirt. She looks simple, like what I'd expect a person from the districts might dress like if they had a professional career. Charcoal grey suit, black pumps. I listen to them click on the tile floor as she exits the room.

"Where's she from?" I ask. She's obviously not from the Capitol.

"She's from One," Finnick replies.

"I know you don't like this sweetheart, but if you want to stay alive, you need to play along," Haymitch starts. I don't move. They are missing the point of all this.

"What's the play?" I ask, not bothering to lift my head.

"You aren't going to like it," Haymitch responds. I move my eyes up to meet his, leaving my cheek pressed against the cold surface of the table. It's Finnick who speaks.

"You are a hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic. You didn't know what you were doing," Finnick answers. "We have some expert witnesses lined up to testify to the effects of post-traumatic stress, tagging on the incident that landed you in the hospital. People want to forgive you, Katniss. They just need a reason to."

My eyes shift to Peeta. He's quiet. Displeased.

"You don't like it," I say. He meets my eyes.

"No, I don't," he answers.

"Why?" I ask. Peeta audibly lets out a breath.

"Because you're not crazy. I mean, I will say whatever, _whatever,_ is needed to keep you alive. You know that. But…" He kneels in front of me, his eyes finding mine. "You're a hero, Katniss. And they are painting you out to be a villain. When your name shows up in history books, I want people to remember you for who you really are."

I roll my eyes and turn away from him.

"You can't keep punishing yourself," Peeta says too softly for Haymitch and Finnick to hear. These words are meant for me alone. "Tell her what you told me. That the people needed peace. That –"

"I'm not going to do that," I insist, my face still pressed to the cold surface.

"Why?" he asks, his tone is gentle, but I feel everything inside me burning.

"Because!" I say, shoving myself away from the table.

"Because why?" he pushes.

"Because it's not true!" I yell. "Because I'm not a hero. Because I wasn't freeing Panem. She killed my sister, Peeta. She killed my sister and I wanted her dead because that's how I deal with things. That's who I am now. That's who Snow turned me into."

He doesn't flinch or miss a beat. "No, that's what you want to believe about yourself because you are hurting," Peeta responds. I stare at the wall. "Tell me one thing. Before your grabbed the arrow, before you loaded your bow, what was your last thought? Were you thinking of vengeance?" His voice is so low I barely hear him. We said we wouldn't lie to each other. I shake my head no. In that moment, I was not thinking of vengeance. "What did you think?" he whispers.

"No more," I murmur, silently breaking down in my chair.

"No more what?" he asks.

"No more Games. No more death. No more war. No more fear. No more little girls with blonde hair being sent for tribute," I ramble, the truth stinging my tongue like acid. "I just… for one moment… I just wanted us to find some peace."

"That's what I thought," he says, standing and dusting off his knees.

I realize I am what Snow made me, but it was never what he intended. I'm broken, but stronger for it. Brave, but imperfect. Unwilling to give in to injustice. Foolish, but kind. A beautiful mess of contradictions. I finally look at myself the way Peeta looks at me. A fiercely loyal, foolhardy, independent, courageous woman who can't let those she loves know pain. And I love them all. I love each stupid man and woman in the Capitol square. I don't have room for anything else anymore. All I am is love and grief. And the hurt had to stop.

Peeta turns to Haymitch. "She's not crazy. We need to think of another way."

We spin in circles for hours. My lawyer comes and goes. Food is delivered, but it turns my stomach. Finnick gets me to eat a few bites of yogurt, but I spend the next few minutes swallowing hard and trying to keep it from coming up.

"Let's change directions," I finally say. Haymitch nods in agreement as he eats the sandwich that was brought for me. "What do they think happened to Coin?" I ask.

"Well, the prosecution's theory is that you poisoned her while you were both in the hospital, and when that didn't work you went for your arrow to finish the job," Haymitch says through a mouth full of crusty bread.

"So why am I only charged with attempted assassination if they think I did it?" I ask.

"Because they are having issues proving the first part of their theory," Haymitch retorts.

"And the other charges?" I say, reading the paper my lawyer left on the table. "Conspiracy? Treason?"

"Well, treason's obvious," Haymitch replies. "They tagged that on there because it comes with an automatic death sentence should anyone be convicted." Peeta picks at his pants. I don't react. I should be terrified at the prospect of my death, but I'm not. I'm just tired of it all. Angry that when I go, it will be because the Capitol put me down. Even if it's a new Capitol, I don't get to die on my own terms.

"Conspiracy is because they don't think you were acting alone. If they are right that you poisoned her, they are certain someone supplied you with the poison. You were also given live arrows at the Reaping, but they were supposed to be the prop arrows you had been using in the Mockingjay shoots," Finnick answers.

"Great," I respond tonelessly.

"It's a good thing, sweetheart. They are not able to prove any of the stuff about the poisoning and the arrows. If anything, they are trying to throw the kitchen sink at you to see what sticks, but it just makes their overall case look weaker. At least, that's what Adila said earlier," Haymitch answers. I ignore the mixed metaphor and watch Peeta clean up, sweeping crumbs from the table into his cupped hand and dropping them in the trash.

"What do you think happened?" I ask, and Peeta stills. His eyes shift to Haymitch. He stares intently.

"I don't think it was food poisoning. I think someone poisoned everyone in the Reaping meeting so they could get at Coin in the hospital. So they'd have access to her without suspicion of her body guards. And sweetheart, you ain't smart enough to have planned that all out behind our backs," Haymitch states.

My mind whirls. I can't process, I can't hold on to the thought, but then it just forces its way into my brain again. I can't. I can't. But…

She knew.

"Haymitch," I ask quietly. "Where's my mom?"


	33. Chapter 33 - The Prosecution

"I'd need to talk to Annie first," Finnick says quietly as I am wheeled into our same meeting room by a guard. The last meeting was too tiring for me and it's been days since I've been back. They've been meeting without me anyway.

"No. Absolutely not," Peeta says firmly. Haymitch just stares at Finnick with a sad look on his face.

"What?" I ask as the guard locks my wheels and exits the room promptly.

"Nothing," Finnick says dismissively.

"Tell her, she'd want to know," Peeta says. His words are forceful but his tone is less so.

"I…. um. I know the medical examiner," Finnick states. Coin's autopsy is still outstanding pending the results of her toxicity panel. My lawyer says it's unheard of that they brought charges against me before a cause of death was documented on Coin's death certificate. "I could… I could convince him to put something other than homicide. Something that would make prosecuting you for the poisoning more difficult."

"How would you convince him to do that?" I ask pointedly. Finnick stares at the floor. A heat rushes over my body. I'm sweating through my clothes and my stomach is lurching. "No. No. No. I don't want you to do that," I stumble insistently.

"I would, Katniss. If it means saving your life, I'd –"

"No!" I cut him off before he can go any further. I stand up from my chair and take a few shaky steps toward him. I drop to my knees in front of Finnick and cup his face in my hands. "You will never _ever_ have to do that again. You hear me?" He nods before he finally makes eye contact. The way he looks at me makes my chest physically hurt.

I struggle to get to my feet and Peeta walks me back to my chair. _Thank you,_ he mouths silently as he helps me into my seat. I'm just getting settled as the door opens and my lawyer walks in.

"I want you in court tomorrow afternoon, Katniss," she states as she unloads an armful of folders onto the table.

"I don't want to," I say back. She looks at me for a moment, her eyes darting to my fingers that I hadn't realized were idly playing with the cuff of my sleeve. I drop them immediately, blushing like a child caught picking their nose.

"I don't much care what you want. My job is not to make you like me. It's to give you your best chance in court. And to do that, I'm going to need you in person. You won't have to speak. They just need to see your face. Remember that you are a person, and not this inhuman figure the prosecution is portraying you as," she states matter-of-factly. I'm so numb I just stare at my hands.

"Fine," I mumble. I sit and listen to them talk for the next hour. Haymitch has drafted up some remarks to add to our opening statement. It seems the prosecution's case will be coming to a close by then end of the week. Adila scratches some of Haymitch's comments onto a piece of paper and they both read through it again.

The prosecution's case is sloppier than anyone expected. With the rush to trial, they have not had the adequate time to get their ducks in a row, as my father used to say. They have me on live television though, loading my bow, faltering, and aiming again before I'm shot. Even if they lose on the conspiracy charge, the other two are enough to hang me.

The trouble is public opinion.

After Coin's death, the districts did not seem as distraught as many thought they would be. 13 is fuming, but years of militaristic discipline have kept them from having any kind of protest or outburst. No one in the Capitol liked Coin – the face of vengeance in a time of peace. Still, a new nation has to be built on laws of its own choosing. Letting me go unpunished would set a dangerous precedent. No politician would feel safe to lead. And so even though the people don't want me convicted, they can't see letting me go either.

"It's why I wanted to play the crazy card," Haymitch insists. "It would give them an excuse to free you."

"Let's see how the prosecution rests their case," Adila concludes, gathering her things as she stands from the table. She looks at me. "I'll send someone to your room in the morning to help you get ready." I nod and she clicks her way from the room in her sensible black pumps. I never understood when Effie would say that – sensible pumps. To me, no heels are sensible. What if you needed to take off running?

Normal people don't need to take off running.

I slouch in my chair. My guard will give me a couple minutes but he'll be in soon to return me to my confinement in the Tribute Center.

"It's not too late to say you're nuts," Haymitch says again. I nod. What he doesn't realize is I don't need to win this case. I don't actually care. I stopped caring because it made my heart hurt. The sooner this is over, the better, regardless of the outcome. The sooner it's over, the sooner I can stop waking and wishing I'd died in a fireball in the square. The sooner I can stop seeing her in my sleep. The sooner Gale will stop visiting me when I'm less than lucid, leaning his head on my shoulder and never confessing to killing my sister. The sooner I'll stop sweeping Johanna into my hands and blowing her into the sky the way one might blow the fluffy seeds off an aged dandelion.

Maybe I am nuts.

Morning comes too quickly, and with a flourish, as Effie Trinket twitters her way into my room. I hear her tell me it's time for another big big big day, but when I look her lips are pursed and I think maybe I'm just hearing things. She's brought a number of outfit options for me to wear, each plain and simple. When we're finished, she wraps her arms around me and squeezes me tight. She's stronger than you'd think for such a tiny woman.

"I'll be sitting right behind you in court," she clicks. I wonder if Coin had gone through with exterminating the Capitol population if Effie would have been executed. Plutarch. Fulvia. I wonder if it was an idle threat or an actual reality.

When my guard comes to lead me to court, Effie positions herself immediately at my side. Ever the escort, even if she no longer has to be. Even if now, she is escorting a suspected traitor as opposed to a victor. There is no glory for her in this, but she never leaves my side.

When we arrive at court, I'm whisked in through a back entrance to avoid the mob of press out front. The building is enormous, with marble floors and swirling, gilded walls. I get lost as they wheel me down halls, into elevators, through doors. I'm not really paying attention. I'm still not sure why I'm going through with this charade. When we reach the courtroom, we are met outside by my regular crew – Adila, Haymitch, Peeta, and Finnick. Annie is waiting, too, her swollen womb almost bigger than she is. Peeta goes to push my chair inside when I raise my hand.

"Stop," I say suddenly, and Adila looks down at me with concern.

"You have to do this, Katniss," she insists.

"I know," I reply, grasping the rails of my wheelchair. "I just want to walk in." I hoist myself up slowly. Peeta offers a hand but I shake my head no. If I'm going in here, I'm doing it all on my own. The guard opens the large double doors. Adila and I take the lead in what feels like funeral procession, followed immediately by my guard, then Haymitch, Effie, Finnick, Annie, and Peeta. The aisle is in the center and along either side run benches where people sit. It reminds me of the worship houses we saw on our Victory Tour, from before the Dark Days when people still had faith in something bigger than themselves. Churches and synagogues, all different and yet all the same. Pretty stained glass, broken and dulled with years of neglect. Pews where parishioners sat, praising God and bowing their heads in prayer. We don't pray anymore.

I wonder if this courthouse might become my church. Where I believe in something greater than myself. Maybe it will restore my faith in the government.

I doubt it.

I take my seat and rise almost immediately as a parade of judges enter the room and sit at the long bench in facing the court. It's interesting that we are set up to face one another. It's almost conversational, but it's not meant to be. The bench is risen a few feet in the air, positioning the judges to look down upon the accused. That symbolism is not lost on me.

"You may be seated," the lead judge states and everyone drops to their seat saves council. The Chief Justice's glasses slip down her long nose and she slides them back up her face. "Miss Everdeen. Nice of you to join us."

I start to respond but my lawyer puts a hand on my knee. I look at her and she shakes her head no, imperceptible to anyone but me. Don't talk. Don't respond.

I let my eyes drift and fix on a scroll carved into the wood of the bench. I'm not here. I lose time. I think about the woods and rain until I hear the slam of the gavel and am jolted back to the present. The prosecutor is standing. I don't know when that happened. He's young, in his early forties maybe. His once blonde hair is speckled with bits of gray around his temples. His jaw is square, his shoulders more demure than he'd probably like. He's tall and the pinstripes on his suit extenuate his lanky limbs. But in his eyes, a passion burns. He's captivating.

"In conclusion, you know what you saw. Katniss Everdeen trained her aim on the President, drew an arrow, and intended to fire. The only thing that prevented her from carrying out this deadly task was illness," he states. Behind him a screen plays the same 30-second loop over and over. I draw the arrow, raise it. Slouch. Raise it again. Repeat. "Had the President's guards not intervened, Miss Everdeen would have been successful. We cannot simply acquit the Mockingjay of her crimes because she is a hero. There is no ledger that evens things out. We have to protect our people from violence. After years of abuse at the hands of the Capitol, a life cannot be threatened without consequences. Our children need to feel safe at home and in school. Our politicians need to be able to meet with their constituents without fear of assassination. Our workers need to know they can speak their minds and vote their conscience and not worry someone might retaliate with violence." He takes a breath, buying time to let his statement sink in before he proceeds. "The President would have died anyway. We know that. But the plan is clear. The motive is clear. And however noble her intentions were, we do not murder our enemies. That is what Snow did. That is not what we will do in our new nation."

The judges are nodding their heads. I can't say I disagree with him. I don't think I should go unpunished. It doesn't mean I think Coin didn't deserve to die. The prosecutor returns to his desk and unbuttons his jacket before sitting.

I don't think my lawyer is breathing. Adila rolls a pencil in her fingers.

She's not sure she can win.


	34. Chapter 34 - The Defense

I wake up and stare at the ceiling. I'm still sleeping in the hospital bed in the living area of the District 12 suite. I look at the stairs and imagine myself trying to crawl up them. I've only been up maybe a half dozen times to shower, when the guard feels generous enough to help me or my lawyer complains about my smell and forces his hand. I can get around the first floor on my own okay now. I get winded, but I can manage the short trips between pieces of furniture. I walk a few steps to the kitchen and pour a glass of water from the sink. Food still turns my stomach, but I feel insatiably thirsty all the time. I head to the couch, turn on the television, and promptly drop my glass onto the floor. It shatters into a thousand pieces at my feet, water soaking the cuffs on my pajama pants.

PRESIDENT'S DEATH RULED ACCIDENTAL PER CORONER.

Finnick.

No. No no no no.

I stare at the screen in horror as the reporter dives into the details of this latest revelation. The medical examiner has concluded it was an allergic reaction to a medication she was given while in the hospital and not a poisonous substance that ended Coin's life. It is revealed that Coin left the hospital against doctor's orders, and that her condition has been steadily degrading since she was given a dose of medication to help with the side effects of food poisoning. The toxicity panel revealed no foreign substances in her blood save for the medications already noted in her medical chart. It seems her death was a rare complication. A tragic accident. "What this implies for the Mockingjay trial, we can only wait and see," the reporter concludes.

I shove myself to my feet. My legs quiver and beg me to stop but I force my way to the door. It's locked. I slam my fist against the wood until the guard opens it. He stares down at me, his square shoulders dwarfing any ability I have to look intimidating. I'm not going to scare him the way I scare other people.

"I need to see Finnick Odair," I insist.

"You don't leave this room unless it's for a defense meeting or court," he replies, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

"Can I at least call him?" I ask.

"No," he responds. "You are only allowed phone calls to your lawyer."

"I'd like to call her then," I retort.

"Be my guest," the guard replies sarcastically. He hands me a one-time key code that will allow me to make an outbound call to my lawyer. I close the door in his face and punch the code into the keypad. The phone starts ringing.

"Hello, Katniss,"Adila answers. She must recognize these passcode calls. I never call her by her name, although she's insisted.

"I need to talk to Finnick," I say immediately, ignoring any pleasantries that may be expected of my phone etiquette.

"You aren't allowed visitors," she answers. I know this. She knows I know this. The night with Peeta was a fluke. The guard wasn't aware of my restrictions because up until that point I had been unconscious.

"Can we have a meeting then? I need to see him," I respond. Adila is quiet for a minute. I think she can hear the desperation in my voice.

"Are you alright, Katniss? What happened today is a good thing," she says in what she probably thinks is a comforting tone. It's not a good thing. It means Finnick had to give himself to someone. Again. For me.

"Please," I say quietly. I think it's the only word I can manage.

"Okay. Are you looking for the full team or just Finnick?" Adila asks.

"Just Finnick," I reply.

"I'll send orders to have your guard transfer you within the hour," my lawyer promises before hanging up the receiver. I pace the room. My body is drenched in sweat from the effort, and by the time my guard moves me I look as though I've run a marathon. Finnick and Adila are already seated at the table when I arrive in our meeting room. My lawyer dismisses herself once I enter, leaving Finnick alone at the table.

"I didn't," he says immediately.

"Don't lie to me," I say back. Guilt crawls under my skin like insects consuming a decomposing corpse. I feel sick.

"Kat, I didn't," he repeats, try to stare me directly in the eye, but I examine the table, the floor, anything.

"But why would the coroner...? It's not true," I spit out.

"Of course it's not true. I have no idea how or why he wrote what he did, but I did not go see him," Finnick says evenly. I finally look at him. His face turns soft. "I was going to, Katniss. I could live with it. But I didn't think you could."

I let out a breath I'd been holding for the past two hours. It sounds like a gasp, like a wheeze, like my lungs have collapsed.

"See? I was right," Finnick teases, dropping his hand to my knee and squeezing it hard.

"You should go home, Finnick. To Four. They cleared you for travel," I state. His eyes flash for a moment but he pushes it down. "Your wife is ready to pop. That baby should be born by the sea, not in some stuffy city hospital." Finnick barks out a laugh.

"If you think for one second I could get Annie to leave while your life hangs in the balance, you aren't clear on who wears the pants in our marriage," he grins. "We are both staying. Period." I smile a little. I like to think of Annie bossing him around, but I know that's not it. He'd do anything for that girl.

"Why did the coroner lie?" I ask. Finnick is quiet as he thinks.

"I don't know," he answers.

We meet at the courthouse early the next morning for one last strategy session before our opening remarks. I'm wearing a gray suit that makes me think of District 13. _I'm never wearing gray again_ , I think to myself. Of course, if the prison uniforms are gray it may be all I ever wear.

"Katniss?" Peeta stares at me. I meet his eyes and he tries to hide his concern.

"Huh?" I ask. They were talking.

"Last chance, sweetheart," Haymitch says, holding up the manuscript of lies. That I'm crazy. That I didn't know what I was doing. The statement that says I cannot be responsible for my actions because of the war wounds on my mind. I am war weary, yes. I have nightmares and I seize up at loud noises. But I knw exactly what I was doing.

"No. I'm sick of lying about who I am," I state, and Haymitch drops the load of paper unceremoniously in the trashcan. He straddles the chair next to Adila and they mark-up her speech. The death certificate helps, they say. I stare at the wall. I feel like I'm on one of the rides they had at the Victory Tour celebrations. A bunch of horses on sticks, bouncing up and down and winding in a circle. A merry-go-round, Effie called it. I'm bouncing up and down and the scenery keeps changing, but it's always the same.

By the time Adila's standing in front of the court giving her speech my head has begun to throb. I start to wonder how many hours it will be before I'm back to my room. Will I even notice? When did I get here? I watch her mouth moving but I can't make out the words. Some of the judges' eyes drop to me and shift back to her again.

"Katniss Everdeen is not the Mockingjay. She's not the Girl on Fire. For once in her life, she's just a girl speaking the truth. Asking for your mercy. Your forgiveness," Adila starts. I'm not so sure that's what I'm doing, but I sit quietly. "For you, for me, for most of us, the war was over. The rebuilding of a nation had already begun. But for some – for Katniss, for the Capitol children, for those that loved them – the mission to free Panem was still very real. They were still at war." She pauses to let her argument sink in. We don't all exist in the same reality. Living among them were people still fighting a silent and invisible war for freedom. "Actions taken on the battlefield are not held to the same standard as those taken in a time of peace. Soldiers kill when they have to and are not punished for it. It's not murder, it's combat. All we've ever asked of Katniss Everdeen is to be a soldier - in an Arena, on the street, in a war. She does what's hard. What some of us can't stomach. She does what needs to be done. What's too hard for most of us. She slays tyrants." Adila and Haymitch argued over that sentence. Was it a good idea to say I slay people? _There no use in hiding who she is,_ Haymitch argued. _Embrace it._ _Otherwise people won't trust you._ Adila continues. "If we condemn our heroes for standing up for what's right, then on what foundation are we building our nation?" She looks at the prosecutor. "The defense has not shown us a conspiracy. The prosecution has shown no ties – not to other Victors, not to the Nationless, not to loyalists of President Snow. They didn't display one concrete piece of evidence linking Miss Everdeen to anyone. Our president died from a tragic and fatal accident and the defense wants a scape goat because it is easier to accept than the randomness of an allergic reaction. There is no conspiracy. And if it's treasonous to save the lives of dozens of children, then I'm not sure what we're all doing here."

One of the judges catches himself unwittingly nodding and straightens his back.

Adila sets up her case. "Over the next few days I will demonstrate that Katniss Everdeen believed she was still at war. That no one helped her. That she acted alone to end the life of the woman threatening to systematically eradicate children, just like the previous regime. A woman with no check and balances in place. A woman that would stop at nothing to feed her bloodthirst."

We are dismissed for the day. Adila will start calling witnesses tomorrow. We go back to the meeting room to debrief. They all talk while I stare at my hands, tracing the burn scars until they disappear under the cuff of my clothes. They conclude, disassemble. When I focus again, the only person left in the room is Peeta.

"You're losing time," he says softly.

"I'm not paying attention," I retort.

"I need you to, Katniss. I need you to snap out of it and participate like the rest of us are," he responds. I'm not in the mood for a lecture. I rise to my feet to beckon my guard, but Peeta steps in front of me.

"Move, Peeta," I say angrily, trying to side step him but not having the balance to do so. I waver on my feet. He grabs my shoulders and I can feel him – the warmth of his hands through the thin blouse. My skin soaking him up like sunshine. I feel something. I feel something different than the void I've been drifting through. I want to kiss him, I want to feel him hot on my mouth. But something is very broken between us. We need to mend.

"Okay," I promise.

Okay.


	35. Chapter 35 - The Verdict

Over the next few days Adila presents dozens of witnesses, mostly people I don't know or have never heard of. Psychology experts discuss the difference in mindsets between an active war combatant and a murderer. Military experts volunteer to speak despite most of them being from District 13. They explain the training required to execute missions against hostiles. "It is engrained in you not to stand down until the mission is completed," one general states. I remember him from the meetings in 13. I think I intentionally spilled coffee on him once.

I'm attentive. I take notes. I don't look particularly remorseful or contrite, but I do look stoic. I'm taking things seriously, at least. I notice a shift in how the judges look at me.

"It's not enough," Haymitch says at our next meeting, closing the door behind him. My wheelchair is propped in the corner but I'm not really using it anymore. My skinny, atrophied legs are finally starting to bear my weight without trembling. "We need to tell them what Coin did."

This has been a hotly debated topic over the last couple days. Haymitch is convinced that if people knew Coin was responsible for the double-bomb in the City Square, the tide of public opinion would turn so strongly against her that the panel of judges would have to acquit me. The entire "we were still at war" argument would be believable if Coin had killed dozens of children and then was lining up dozens more for slaughter.

"No," Peeta says vehemently. I watch them argue. I wonder what it might have been like if the War hadn't broken out. If instead, Haymitch and Peeta were Mentors, fighting passionately over how to keep their tributes alive instead of me. "If we tell them Coin killed Prim, suddenly Katniss will shift from a soldier looking to liberate Panem to a vengeful murderer seeking retribution for the death of her sister."

"Why can't she be both?" Haymitch spits out. "I thought we were going for honesty here. Wasn't that the point of not calling her crazy?"

"I don't think we should tell them," Finnick says, his feet propped on the table, leaning back in his chair. Haymitch gives him a look and he swings his legs from the table and stands. "I think it would be damaging to the country if they knew the extent of Coin's war crimes. There are already rifts between the Districts and the Capitol and Thirteen. If we are going to fix this, if we are going to be _one_ country… it's easier to blame it on Snow. People aren't happy about the Hunger Games, but at least they can understand where that came from. If we say that Coin, that _Thirteen_ , killed those children… I don't know that we can come back from that. It might be the start of another war."

Finnick's words sink in.

"I don't think Finnick is wrong," Adila says. "The generals from Thirteen were eager to testify on Katniss's defense, and based on my interview prep with them I don't think they even like her. They are doing what they can to get through this mess, that's it. They want to bridge the divide between Thirteen and the other Districts."

"The people shouldn't know," I say. The words taste like bile. Finnick is right. It would mean war. Haymitch pulls at his hair in frustration, then finally sits down with Adila to start scribbling out her next round of questions.

The following days are a blur. More experts. Statements from soldiers that served with me on the ground. Cressida's testimony takes half a day in court. She is in the rare position to have been by my side as the Mockingjay and in the War. She knows how to tell a story. She weaves an intricate and heartbreaking narrative of a girl hardened by violence, but still aching for her people. A soldier refusing to stop until the mission was over. Until Panem was free.

Adila does not call any of us to the stand. Haymitch. Peeta. Finnick. Annie. Me. The prosecution is quick to point out the fact that not a single Victor is testifying, implying the conspiracy is very real. Despite that, Adila absolutely refuses to let me testify.

"I thought you wanted to hear her story," Haymitch says sarcastically. The longer the trial runs, the more difficult he's become. I stare at him for a moment. He's aged since my first Games. Gray streaks run throughout his hair and the lines on his face have hardened. Since he stopped drinking his nose is no longer red. There's no color in his face at all. He just looks ashen. Tired. He's looks like an old man.

He doesn't think we can win.

"The prosecution would eviscerate her. There are just too many questions that make her look guilty," Adila insists.

I stare at her incredulously. I don't know that I want to testify, but I want the choice. Instead she's just another person deciding what's best for me. She exhales loudly, then folds her hands in front of her.

"Why did you vote for the Hunger Games?" she starts.

"Because I needed to get close to Coin," I answer honestly.

"Why did Haymitch vote for the Hunger Games?" she fires back.

"I thought the vote was private," I mumble. Another lie from Coin.

"Answer the question. Why did Haymitch vote for the Hunger Games?" Adila asks sternly. I stare at Haymitch.

"Because he knew I was up to something," I reply.

"Because you two were in on a conspiracy to kill the President?" Adila immediately responds without a moment of hesitation.

"No!" I shoot back. I try to assuage my temper. "No," I say more evenly.

"Were you romantically involved with your cousin, Gale?" Adila changes topics. My face flushes in anger and embarrassment.

"He's not my cousin," I answer firmly, but then a sorrow overwhelms me and makes my chest clench. "He _wasn't_ my cousin."

"Well, that must have made the romance easier. What else have you lied to Panem about?" she follows up.

"I didn't lie!" I insist.

"Oh? So your engagement to Mr. Mellark was real?" she asks. Peeta stares at the floor.

"No, the engagement wasn't real. But I didn't lie about Gale. I never said he was my cousin," I manage.

"That wasn't my question." Adila stares at me. "Back to my secondary inquiry. What _have_ you lied about, Miss Everdeen?"

Everything. I've lied about everything. I feel naked, like my clothes have evaporated from my body and I'm exposed. For the first time in a long time I feel something else, too. Rage. Seething anger.

"Moving on. Are you working with the Nationless?" she asks.

"No. I haven't seen Frater Snow since the invasion of the mansion. I've already given my statement about that," I answer, unable to mask the spite in my tone.

"Did you intentionally provoke President Snow?" she asks.

"I don't know what you mean?" I respond. What is she getting at?

"Did you take actions to intentionally provoke the Capitol? Actions to fuel the rebellion?" she elaborates.

"Yes," I state. "That was part of being the Mockingjay."

"Do you believe your actions in the Quarter Quell resulted in the bombing of District 12?" Adila asks.

I can't breathe. I find Peeta, my eyes stinging. I feel like I can taste them now, the ash of my people caught in my throat.

"Yes," I mouth, but the words don't come out. It's just air.

"You knew that your actions would be met with a response," she infers.

"Yes."

"And yet you pushed him."

"Yes."

"And now most of your District is dead."

"Yes."

"Do you think you are responsible for your sister's death?" Adila pushes. The question is brutal and cruel, but she doesn't hold her punches. "Would she be alive today if you hadn't done what you'd done?"

I stand up and sweep my arm across the table, sending her papers flying across the room. I turn and face the wall, burying my hands in my hair. She watches me calmly.

"We are trying to portray you as a patriotic soldier. They will turn you into an angry, blistered, emotional girl who kills people to solve her problems," Adila says to my back. She's right. I nod, but I can feel my body shaking.

"No," I say under my breath.

"What?" she asks.

"No. I am not responsible for my sister's death," I state, turning back to her and meeting her stare.

"Katniss," Adila starts but pauses, considering if she should go any further. She lifts her face to mine. "Where is your mother?"

I swallow hard. The silence that hangs between us feels like a heavy smog. "I won't testify," I concede.

"Let's take a break," Adila offers, composing herself before stepping out of the room.

On the last day of court Adila gives her closing argument. It's a replay of what she said before – that the war wasn't over. That Coin's death was an accident. That if the prosecution could prove conspiracy, other parties would have been charged by now. The prosecution is given time for a three-minute rebuttal, and then the defense 90 seconds to reply. The prosecutor points to the video. The try to tie me to the Nationless and the other Victors, albeit unsuccessfully. But there I am, on screen, lifting my bow.

Adila takes a breath. "We are here today because justice prevailed. We won the War. We no longer live in a nation where our political enemies are muted by torture or killed in the shadows of night. We all fought for our freedom. We deserve praise for what we did. But we, as a nation, owe Katniss Everdeen. We owe her our gratitude. She was the spark that lit the nation ablaze. She ran into the War, head high. She led us forward. She killed Snow. And she experienced a loss so horrifying we can only imagine what haunts her dreams at night. There is a debt owed to her that we cannot repay." I can hear Haymitch in her words. People in the Districts have never had much, but we had honor. We had dignity. No one like to owe anyone anything. I think it's ridiculous, but I keep my mouth shut. "We cannot begin to redeem the loss of her childhood. The loss of her sister. The horrors of the Games and the War. But you, your Honors. You can start. Show Miss Everdeen what Panem wants to say. What we've all wanted to say." Adila turns to me. She puts the pencils she's been twirling on her fingers down on the desk and flattens her skirt. "Thank you, Katniss. And I'm sorry."

Court adjourns.

"And now, we wait," Finnick says. We all file back to our meeting room. Annie is waiting there, as is Effie. We sit around the table and don't say much. Haymitch orders food. I stare at the windowless walls and paint imaginary pictures with my eyes. I remember Rue's image on the floor of the Tribute Center, wiped away with bleach, Peeta's hands stained purple.

"You should paint a mural," I say. Peeta turns and looks to me. He's pale. He's so tired. "Somewhere outside, where the sun can hit it."

"Okay," he responds with the same sureness he might have if I asked for a glass of water or some other menial favor.

My stomach churns. I hear her words over and over in my mind. _Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry._ I never wanted their pity. I never asked for their sympathy. It makes me feel dirty. I swallow and remember that I promised Peeta I'd try.

The door opens suddenly and we all startle in our seats. It's only been an hour. We expected to go home tonight not knowing. When I look up, my skin prickles as if reacting to an unwelcome breeze. Plutarch Heavensbee leans in, his massive body taking up most of the doorway. Absent for the work, here for the attention.

"They are ready for you, Katniss. I'll walk you in," he offers congenially, as if he'd been here with us all along. As if he weren't solely present to be seen, ever the observer, the manipulator, the thief. We rise and follow him back to the courtroom. Before they open the large, double doors to readmit us, Peeta slips his hand in mine and pulls me toward him.

"I–" he starts.

"I love you," I say softly. He drops my hand and wraps his arms around me. He squeezes me so tight I feel as though I may never breathe again, but I don't want to. I just want to be dizzy and lost in his arms.

"I believe in you," he whispers into the crook of my neck, and for a moment I imagine we are anywhere but here.

We take our seats and wait a few minutes for the judges to file back in. At the slam of the gavel I rise for the verdict.

"On the charge of Conspiracy, we find the defendant Not Guilty," the first charge is read. I hear gasps and cheers, moans and held breath from the crowd behind me.

"On the charge of Treason, we find the defendant Not Guilty," the second charge is read. Adila squeezes my elbow. We've assumed the Treason and Attempted Assassination charges were linked. If I'm innocent for one, I'll likely walk free on the other.

"On the third and final charge, Attempted Assassination of a Government Official, we find the defendant Guilty," the judge reads.

Guilty.

My knees give out and I drop into my seat. There is ringing in my ears. It's as though the room is silent save a mechanical whistling noise that only exists in my head. I turn and see Adila speaking, but aside from watching her mouth move I don't process any of the words. A guard comes and I'm forced to my feet. I look back over my shoulder and meet eyes with Peeta as they lock handcuffs and shackles on my hands and feet. I don't hear the sentencing. It's as though the room is warped, a fisheye view where reality is not quite solid, where it bends at the edges. I feel hands on me and I am shoved toward the back of the court. When the double doors open, a lightbulb flashes and it's as if I'm slammed forcefully back into reality.

The noise of the chaos overwhlems me. "Katniss! Over here! Katniss!" the reporters cry out in a jumble of sounds, until I hear a familiar voice.

"Katniss!" I hear him scream behind me. I look over my shoulder and watch as Peeta is detained by a slew of guards. Finnick is trying to calm him down. I'm shoved forward through the crowd of reporters. I can't hear myself think through the din of questions shouted on top of one another.

"Katniss, anything you want to say?" A microphone is shoved in my face.

My feet glide willingly over the tile floors, leaving the crowd of reporters in my wake. Outside the early spring air bites my cheeks. There was an unseasonably late snow last night and the bottoms of my pants wet in slush of the sidewalk. The back doors of a gray van open and I'm shoved unceremoniously inside. The doors slam shut and I am plunged into darkness.

I sit on the floor of the van. They start moving forward and my body jostles with the bumps of the street – still broken and wounded from pods and war. Just like me. My surroundings finally match my insides. Black. Broken. Betrayed.

Out of nowhere a song catches itself in my throat and I remember my dad.

 _A caged bird always sings, Katniss._


	36. Chapter 36 - Blood Debt

The Capitol didn't have prisons. Neither did the Districts. Criminals were executed or turned into Avoxes. Some were poisoned and some vanished in the middle of the night. Other crimes we just ignored. No one was punished for beating their wives or children. But aside from places of torture or makeshift holdings cells, there were no real prisons where people lived their day-to-day lives. There was no place to serve a sentence because there was no real court system.

It means the guards at this prison don't know what they are doing.

The criminals incarcerated here fall into a few distinct categories – Capitolites charged with war crimes awaiting execution, District-born spies and loyalists, and Peacekeepers. There are a few rare cases of non-war criminals being imprisoned for short stints – burglary, assault, disorderly conduct, public intoxication. Most of these people come and go before I learn their names. The rest I avoid. In a prison full of those ruined by Snow's downfall, I have a target on my back.

The first night they jump me in the bathroom. There are too many to fight back. I'm too weak to try. Too tired to care. I just lie there on the wet floor as they kick me in the legs, the ribs, the shins.

"Why won't she cry?" one of the women bellows before wailing me in the jaw. I won't, though. Instead I just stare at the ceiling and pretend like I'm not here. Like I'm floating above my body. The guards pull me off the floor a few hours later. The next day I am tasked with scrubbing my blood out of the grout with a toothbrush and a bucket of bleach. The gray tile just looks pink now. How fitting for a ladies bathroom.

The warden decides to put me in solitary confinement for my own safety. Three times a day a small latch on my door opens and a tray of food is slipped inside. I refuse to eat so they stuff feeding tubes up my nose. I pull them out so they restrain me to a bed. This goes on for a while, until finally I figure out if I just move the food around on my tray they'll leave me alone. Once a week I'm allowed outside after the yard has already been abandoned by the other inmates. I lie on the picnic table and soak in the sun until they force me back inside.

I receive daily letters from Peeta. I don't open them, I just stuff them under my mattress. He'll wait for me. He'll wait the entire ten-year sentence. He'd wait for me forever, if he had to. But the War is over. He deserves to be happy. He needs to put all of this behind him, including me. He's still so young. He can't live the next decade of his life wanting what he can't have. I don't even know who I'll be when I leave this place. If I'll be worth loving. I request a piece of paper and scribble an ugly word I don't mean, but do.

 _Stop._

The letters come anyway.

A few weeks later a magistrate shows up at the prison. I'm brought into a small, white room. The woman sits at the table with a stack of papers and a long list places precisely in front of her. Her hair is neat as a pin, her uniform flawlessly pressed. Across her chest she bears a sticker with the words Poll Moderator.

"Name?" she asks without looking up. I just stare at her. "Name?" she asks with less patience, until she lifts her eyes to see me standing in front of her.

"Oh. Miss Everdeen. Of course," she murmurs as she crosses my name off the list. The magistrate takes a piece of paper from the pile stacked as high as she is and slides it across the table in front of me. "You may select only one candidate from each section."

I have no idea what she is talking about until my eyes scan the paper below. This is a ballot. There aren't many sections, and only one I care about.

 _PRESIDENT  
Commander Patina Paylor, District 8  
Mister Winn Davis, District 10  
Undersecretary Basil Steel, District 13_

There's a pencil resting on the table. Stupid. I could kill her with this pencil if I really wanted to. Instead, though, I take the writing utensil in my hand and hover.

"Do I just, uh, circle who I want?" I ask, my voice raspy from lack of use.

"Fill in the circle next to the candidate's name," she says cheerfully. I carefully mark Commander Paylor's circle, vigilant not to let even a smudge of lead outside the lines. I can't give them any reason to invalidate my ballot.

I hand it to her and turn back to the guard at the door, but I stop and turn back around.

"Thank you," I say softly.

She twitters a little to herself, flustered. "No, Miss Everdeen. Thank you. From all of us."

The next few weeks I don't retain much. One day I'm lying on the floor of my cell and I begin to sing. I don't stop. I sing at to the walls, in the shower, in my sleep. Hours and hours of ballads and love songs, mountain airs and folk tunes. All the songs my father taught me before he died. Clearly there's been no music in my life since. I sing songs on an endless cycle. It amazes me how clearly I remember them – the melody, the words. My voice is rough at first, but it warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and tumble over themselves to join in, were I not be locked in a room of concrete. One day I notice the slot where my food comes in open and I realize the guards are listening. I forget how human they are sometimes.

Weeks go by, until a morning when the door to my cell screeches open and jolts me out of sleep. It's still dark and brightness from the hallway penetrates the room. My eyes squint at the invading light.

"Come with me," the guard announces and my stomach drops. This is not routine. I have no idea where they are taking me.

"Where are we going?" I ask, but they don't bother answering. I throw on my navy blue slacks. The prison uniforms remind me of doctor's scrubs. If I escaped I might blend right in at a hospital. I hold my hands out expecting to be shackled, but instead the guard just starts walking, gesturing for me to follow. It doesn't take much diversion from my regular route to get me lost. I've only been to a few places in the prison. I know where the general population lives. I know where the cafeteria and yard are. I could find my way to the showers if I needed to. When we finally pass through one door, it stops looking like a prison and more like an office building. The walls are drywall painted eggshell white. It's not a jail, it's a picture of mediocrity.

"Where are we? I ask.

"The warden's wing," the guard responds. He stops at a door and opens it, indicating I'm to go inside. It's a conference room. Plain, white walls. Gray carpeted floor. A table and metal chairs with plastic seats and backs. It's ordinary, except that the person seated at the table makes me lose my breath. The door closes behind me and the guard leaves to two of us alone.

"I'm sorry it took so long to get you out of there, Miss Everdeen," his voice floats to me from his seat at the table. I waiver on my feet and lock my knees, staring at the familiar yet starkly different face of Frater Snow.

"What do you mean?" I ask. He slides a newspaper across the table and I pick it up, still standing. The headline reads IN FIRST ACT AS PRESIDENT, PAYLOR PARDONS MOCKINGJAY. I choke a little, grabbing the back of one of the chairs for balance.

"I thought for certain when we forged the medical examiner's report you'd be acquitted. Haymitch really is quite clever," Frater adds. My head swirls and I finally pull a chair out and sit hard. Haymitch has been working to the Nationless? Haymitch bribed the Coroner?

"How long?" I blurt out, my voice sounding more vulnerable than I like it. Haymitch is a part of the Nationless.

"Since the beginning, Miss Everdeen," Frater replies. "He's never been good at following rules."

I notice the room has a window. I cross to it, desperate for a view outside of these four ever-shrinking walls. My knuckles grip the window sill until my skin turns white.

"So you what? Forced Paylor's hand to let me out? Threatened to undermine her presidency with Nationless spies?" I spit at him.

"We expected she'd need to be… influenced… yes. But someone else had already gotten to her. Someone with a poet's tongue," Frater replies. _Peeta._ Frater stares at me like he expects me to thank him.

"So now what? You make your power play?" I ask bitterly, staring out my window and down at the street below.

"I've never been interested in leading," Frater answers with an even tone.

"You lead the Nationless," I retort.

"I'm good at it. It doesn't mean I want to," he says, sighing before running his hand pensively through his snow white beard. "There is no nation with a dictator at the helm. With Coin dead, we can now build our land by the will of those who rebuke tyranny. We can be sovereign. We can build on our differences, embrace when they make us better and change when they make us worse. We're different, Katniss. You and me. But we've always been equal. That is what the new Panem should be about. This nation will become what the product of the dreams of revolutionaries. It will become what we make it." I stare at him, transfixed by his words. He could do great things with this country. Frater could shape us to be our best selves. He smiles kindly. "I said I was good at it. I never said I wanted it. With Paylor shaping our laws and government, the time for the Nationless has passed. We just had one last mission. Free the Mockingjay."

"What are you going to do?" I ask. He smirks.

"Rebuild," Frater answers, standing and brushing his hands on his pants. "Just like you." He turns to the door.

"Wait!" I call out, stepping toward him. "Where is my mom?"

"Your mother has no idea what's going on. She's being held in a Nationless safe house. We had to keep her out of touch during your trial, otherwise she'd have come forward and confessed," Frater answers.

"Confessed to what?" I ask, but I already know. "What did you make her do?"

"I didn't _make_ her do anything, Miss Everdeen," Frater says, his voice still calm.

"Did she inject Coin with some poison? Was that the allergic reaction _?_ " I push.

"No, your mother is more clever than that. What she did was untraceable. We didn't even need to forge the toxicity report," Frater replies. I perk my eyebrows. What did she do? "She pushed a burst of air into Coin's IV. It caused an embolism. Coin went into respiratory arrest during the Reaping. All that was in that woman's veins were standard medicines and a bit of oxygen."

"Why?" I choke out.

"You are not the only one that has figured it out, my dear. Once I told her what Coin did, she volunteered," Frater replies. "We had no idea you were planning your own little suicide mission."

"Then why lie on the death certificate? Why put allergic reaction?" I push. This doesn't make sense.

"If we put cause of death unknown they'd have investigated. We needed something innocuous. Something that could easily be explained," Frater details. I try to digest this news but I feel as though I might be sick.

"Why her?" I whisper, fury dripping in my tone. He turned my mother into a murderer.

"Because she deserved to know. Your family deserved vengeance, and I knew if left to you you'd do something stupid and get yourself killed. Which, by the way, I wasn't wrong about," Frater retorts.

"Why do you care if my family sees justice?" I growl.

"Because I owed you for killing my brother. You ended my nightmare. I thought it was only fair that I end yours," he says smoothly. He cannot leave a debt unpaid. He cannot leave our ledger lopsided. He cannot live the rest of his life owing something to someone. Sometimes I'm more like the Snow brothers than I want to admit.

"My brother used to say a blood debt can only be repaid in kind."


	37. Chapter 37 - A World Worth Living In

"Come home with me," he asks. I've never seen Finnick let himself be so vulnerable.

"It's not my home," I say softly, delicate with the words I know hurt him. I stuff my few possessions into a duffle bag. The pearl. The spile. My family's plant book. My father's jacket. The bundle of Peeta's letters, still sealed and unread.

"Sometimes home is just where you end up, Katniss," Finnick answers. I stare at the quilt on my bed. "I know you close yourself off. I did that for a long time." He closes his eyes and runs his hands over his face. "I don't have a lot of family left. You guys are my family, you and Peeta. Annie and I... we want you in our lives. We want our son to know you." He pauses, taking a slow breath. "Come home with me."

I look up at him and slide my hand on his cheek. He leans into it, his skin smooth and hot. I imagine his son at Reaping age. I imagine Finnick teaching him how to shave, unable to demonstrate on himself. Talking his son through it, pressing tissue against any nicks or scrapes. Annie standing in the doorway, a bittersweet smile on her face.

"I made a promise I have to keep," I answer. His eyes water and he bats them quickly, sniffing his nose and burying the reaction as best he can.

"Okay. Okay." Finnick grabs my bags. "Let me carry these to the station at least. I already loaded Annie and my stuff. Effie appears to have an entire moving crew. You'd think she was moving in and not just staying in Twelve for a couple weeks." He pauses. "It's just weird, you know? Going home."

 _Home._ I didn't think that was a real thing anymore.

Finnick starts walking toward the door. "Finnick! Wait!" I call out, and when he turns back to me I rush forward and wrap my arms around his waist. I hug him as hard as I can manage. He drops my bags abruptly to the floor and envelopes me in an embrace. "You are my family too, okay?" I mumble into his chest. I feel his chin nodding. I close my eyes and see him and Annie on the beach, a toddler stumbling between them, crashing into the soft sand. I smile a real smile.

I hear Finnick sniffling and pull back. He wipes his nose with his wrist and I start laughing at him.

"When did you turn into such a mess?" I tease.

"It's Annie's fault. I hardly sleep anymore. She just won't stop moving," he rambles, laughing through the tears.

"You think you don't sleep now? Wait until you've got a little baby in the room," I joke. He grins widely at me.

We load the train and when I walk past what would normally be Peeta's room, my stomach seizes like I've just swallowed a gulp of ice water too quickly – I can feel the cold lining my stomach and running through my veins to my fingertips and toes. It's weird being on the train without him. Peeta and Haymitch were sent to 12 weeks ago.

I go to my room and unload my bags. I don't unpack. I never really unpack. Nothing in my life is permanent enough for that. I walk across the room and drop unceremoniously on the bed. I lay on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling until I feel myself drift off. I dream about our Tour. About coming back to our suite after dinner with Plutarch. _I'm so glad you're home._

I waste a couple days in my room. Effie comes knocking on my door when I don't show up for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. I ignore her. It's not until Annie comes waddling to my compartment that I let anyone in. She moves carefully to my bed, using her hands to ease her way down.

"I want you to eat something," Annie says, staring at me with concern in her eyes.

"I'm not hungry," I reply, my voice tired. She's not in the mood for excuses, but it's all I have. "I try, it just makes my stomach turn."

"Normal things feel wrong after someone dies," she says. I didn't realize how perceptive this auburn-haired girl is. Annie has always been somewhat of a mystery to me. I like spending time with her because she isn't flighty or nosy and she doesn't talk too much. And yes, sometimes she will just drift away from me, mumbling something incoherent, but she always comes back. "When I went home after my Games, doing normal things felt wrong. I'd survived through something awful but everyone kept expecting me to be happy. Every time I closed my eyes, though, I saw blood and water and death. And so people got mad. My parents got mad because I refused to go back to how things were. My father told me he thought the Games might cure me of my fragility. None of them expected I'd survive. But every normal thing I did felt like a betrayal to those I left behind in the Arena. So I didn't sleep and I didn't eat because doing anything made me feel rotten."

I watch her mouth move, her lips smooth and rosy. Her skin is glowing. I always thought the new mother's glow wasn't real. I'd never seen anyone in 12 glow. But Annie may be the first healthy pregnancy I've seen.

"No one is asking you to forget, Katniss. I'm just asking you to eat this apple," Annie says, holding out a shiny, red gem in her hands. I remember giving Prim my apple in 13 as a reward. I touch the ruby with my fingertips and a rotting feel shoots up my arm, into my veins, and throughout my body. "It's just an apple," Annie whispers. She pulls a knife from her pocket and cuts a slice off. The skin pops as the blade pierces through. She drops the sticky, cold fruit in my hand.

I can do this. I bring the apple to my mouth and the taste of its juice on my lips brings me back to a day in the woods when Gale and I found a virgin apple tree. It was maybe four or five years old. Its branches were still thin and supple and they bent with the weight of their fruit. We ate until we felt like we might explode. We were both so sick that night – too much sugar and sweetness. The next day we did the same thing. _Worth it,_ Gale said with a sticky, syrupy smile. I'd forgotten about that day. I'd forced it to the recesses of my memory, along with every other thought of Gale I'm too ill-equipped to handle right now. But in this moment I can just remember him as who he used to be – the boy in the woods.

"Thank you, Annie," I smile. She and I share the apple. We talk about home. She tells me about sea shells and salt water. I tell her about the lake and the dry soil. Annie finally rises from my bed, but as she lifts her heavy body, her face winces in pain and she shoots a hand to her swollen belly.

"Oh!" she cries out as she drops to her knees, her forehead pressed to the quilt of my bed.

"Annie? Annie?" I repeat, but it's as though she's in her own world. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"It's fine. I've been getting them all day. It will stop," she breathes through her teeth.

"Getting what all day?" I ask, and then it hits me. "Annie, are you in labor?"

"No," she says firmly, but I can tell from the glistening tears in her eyes she knows she's lying.

"Annie!" I repeat back, but she turns her face away from me.

"I'm just going to hold him in. There's a hospital in Four. We'll be there in a day, two at most," she whimpers, but she knows every word out of her mouth is a hopeful version of events that won't come true.

"How often are you having contractions?" I ask. She shakes her head. There is no doctor on the train. There's us, a few staff members, and the crew needed to operate the train. I stand up, cross to my door, and open it. Finnick and Annie's room is just a few doors down from me. "FINNICK!" I scream out. I see his door open, his blonde head pop out. "Get down here," I beckon him, turning back to the girl writhing on my floor. Her face finally breaks, relief washing over her.

"It's over," she says, but her face shines in sweat. "That one was different," she says quietly, panting as she rubs her stomach with one hand. Finnick walks through my door, and when he sees his wife rocking and soaked on the floor, his face changes.

"Annie, oh my god. Annie, are you having the baby?" he asks. She shakes her head feverishly.

"No. No no no. I'm waiting. I'm–" Another contraction rips through her, less than a minute after the first one. She bunches up her face. Finnick grabs her hand and rubs her lower back as she rocks a little, soothing herself. She finally lets go of the tension, burying her face in Finnick's shoulder.

"I don't think we can wait, Annie. I think we're gonna have to do this really soon," Finnick says gently, but her face contorts into a mask of fear and tears fall down her cheeks. Her face is nearly as red as her hair.

"No. No…" she begs, but there's nothing any of us can do to stop nature.

I miss my sister. She'd know what to do.

I bolt down the hall and get Effie. More hands are better, although when she enters my room she turns a shade of green that makes me wonder if that's really true.

"Get her on my bed," I order as I turn to the bathroom. I see Finnick and Effie each take a side, Effie clicking what she thinks are comforting words.

I look at what I have for supplies. I grab some towels and a couple plastic trash bags. Maybe I should put her in the tub. I try not to panic but my hands shake as I run a hand towel under the steaming hot water of my sink. I close my eyes and think back to my mother. The women on our kitchen table, knees sprawled, hands gripping the edges. The screams, the cry of an infant.

I'm in way over my head.

I come back into the room and Finnick jumps up to help me. He turns his back to Annie, blocking me from her view.

"Please, Kat. Please don't let me lose her," he begs, his words barely audible.

"I'll try," is all I can offer him. He composes himself for a moment and turns back to his wife with a fake smile.

I clean her up a little, saving the worst for last. Her contractions grip her entire body as I wipe her face, her arms. Finally, I build up the nerve, lift her dress, and pull the soaked and bloody underwear down Annie's legs. The moment she's exposed my stomach drops. A shiny tuft of red hair protrudes from her body.

"Annie, I'm going to need you to drop your knees out for me, okay?" I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

"Why does she need to do that, Katniss?" Effie twitters, gripping Annie's hand like a vice.

"I just need a better – " I don't finish my sentence. It's exactly what I thought. The top of the baby's head is already poking out. I swallow to keep back the vomit.

"Okay, Annie. Ummm…" I think back to my mom. Face set, body relaxed, hands still. "On the count of three, I need you to push."

"What?" Finnick cries out. "It can't possibly be time for…" he starts, but when he looks at Annie his face turns white and he shifts all his attention to his wife. "You can do this, Ann. You can. You are the strongest woman I know. You can do this."

"One, two, three, push!" I call out. It's over sooner than I'd think, and I have a sloppy, crying, fat baby in my arms. He's slippery and I immediately place him on the bed between Annie's open legs. I wipe his face with a towel and use a straw to clean out his nose. He screams at me until I finally lift him in my arms and place him on Annie's chest. She's crying too. Finnick drops his forehead to his wife's.

"I love you. I love you so much. I love you," he repeats, kissing her face, the baby's head. I've seen so much death, so much hurt, so much pain that I don't quite know how to process what I'm seeing now. It's love. Pure joy. This world is worth being in. This place gives as much as it takes.

"What are you going to name him?" I ask.

Finnick looks up at me, his face covered in sweat and tears.

"Jo," he whispers. "We're going to name him Jo."

Effie and I slip out of the room.

I spend the night in Peeta's room. The vacant cabin is unlocked so I just let myself in. I find a sterile toothbrush in the drawer and scrub my mouth until I can't taste bile anymore. I pull myself under his sheets and stare at the ceiling when it hits me. I left something for Peeta on the train before the Quell. The cleaning crews probably threw it away. It's been nearly a year since we'd been on this train. I left it thinking he'd be back in a matter of days, weeks at most.

I open the drawer to his nightstand with a jerk. It's not there. The smooth rock from the lake. The one Gale laughed at when I dropped it in front of him. My choice for the most beautiful stone in 12. A memory from a day that now feels like a lifetime ago.

Instead, there's a piece of paper.

Our promise.

Across the paper in his post-hijacking scribble are the words we vowed each other: _Meet me at home._

I pick it up gingerly, as if it might turn to dust at my touch. _Meet me at home._

The train arrives in Four the next day. We help move the new family to their house in Victor's Village. Finnick wants us to stay a day or two, but after the last bag is in their home, Effie and I head back to the train. I start coming to breakfast. Effie reads to me from the paper. I pretend to care. The closer we get to 12, though, the more I start clawing at the walls like a stray cat in a home for the first time. The train arrives just after dawn. Effie did not tell Haymitch or Peeta we were coming.

"I wanted it to be a surprise!" she blushes as the train attendants help us with our things. I carry my few meager possessions on my own. Effie has a caravan of men. When we reach the entrance of Victor's Village, I grab Effie's hand.

"Be careful, he might pull a knife on you," I warn. Haymitch is not one for surprises.

We part ways as she heads down the path toward my house. I stare at it from the yard. It looks the same, but different. I wonder what ghosts await me inside, but that isn't the home I planned to return to. I turn my face toward Peeta's. A small puff of smoke billows from his chimney even though we are now in the swing of early summer. I know these steps, I know this path, and yet my heart slams in my chest. I can feel my pulse in my throat, hammering in my temple, fluttering in my fingertips.

I go to the front door. It feels sort of formal. I raise my fist and knock, which doesn't feel normal at all. I hear some shuffling inside and my breath catches. I'm dizzy for lack of air but I can't remember how to make my lungs breathe. The door opens and he looks exactly as I remember him – a white tee shirt, an apron folded in half and wrapped around his waist. Flour on his hands, a smudge on his cheek. His eyes stare at me in disbelief and for a moment I think I've made a mistake. But before the words _I'm sorry_ can cross my lips he steps forward and wraps his arms around me tight.

"Are you really here? Is this real?" he asks, his voice dwarfed by disbelief.

"It's real," I whisper into the crook of his neck.

We stand like this on his porch for too long, for not long enough, just holding each other and rocking slowly back and forth.

It's time to rebuild.


	38. Thank You!

Thank you thank you THANK YOU for taking time to read my story! You guys don't even know how lovely it feels when I get an alert that you've favorited my story or reviewed a chapter. Thank you for your praise, your constructive feedback, your influence… You are all awesome.

A huge shout out to stjohn27 and jroseley, the two have been with me since the beginning back when no one read my stories. I honestly probably wouldn't have even gotten to this series had it not been for them.

Also, a giant THANK YOU to: Resisting-Moonlight, wonderishome, Ifdy, Spoonlicker, Ariel-Scarlett, mystictiger23, llmarmalade, mar071, Evangeline the Gothic Angel, everlark4ever75, Dancer0109, Shellibug, pookieortega, bethaniaroy, Niqachita, Pari B, mkadesha, Puppenschlitten, ryebrewster, deltagirl74, fluffytardis, klarsen117, ShadowLord7, Everlark4ever123198, karin6824, Peeta'sBabe16, Nicky Morays, Katnissidriseverdeen, TwinK21, rebelsroyalty, LessAmused, DauntlessVolunteer, Suze18, Tea4e, cadele-rosa, emilyrose147, especiallyavidreader, lhaine07, akdaneger, TLWtlw, , nandy7781, mystsylight, Karen vera cruz, xzoria, nire47, MAS23, panskiss123, Queensdoitbetter.

One more. A Growing Back together story for a couple that I think deserves it after all they've been through. So head on over to "In All I've Done," the last of the Light Up Series. First chapter is already up!


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